Life Signs
by Inhoe Publishing
Summary: A few months into their five-year mission and Enterprise is on a rescue mission for Outpost Six. When Enterprise is called away on an emergency, it leaves Kirk and McCoy and a small rescue crew behind. But soon it's Kirk who needs rescuing. Will Enterprise return in time or will the Outpost claim another victim?
1. Chapter 1

McCoy stepped away from the surgical table with a deep breath, nodding to the surgical resident. "Go ahead and close."

"Yes, Doctor." Ben Lyke, still covered in the red blood of the patient, moved to comply. He was a second-year surgical resident, assigned to the outpost by a Federation medical alliance. He had only two more months on his tour and he was to return to Earth.

Poor bastard, McCoy thought as he headed for the changing room. Hell of a way to get experience. Tossing his soiled surgical coverings into the hazardous bin, he stood in only the loose-fitting scrubs.

"That's the last of them, Doctor."

He turned at the sound of the soft voice. The young nurse stood just outside the scrub room. She was tall with blond hair and soft blue eyes and couldn't have been more than twenty-five. "Thank you, Christine …."

"Chapel."

He nodded, studying her for a moment. "You've been here since the beginning of the outpost?"

"No. I only arrived a little over a year ago." She looked around the surgical room. "They're good people."

And most of them were dead. It hadn't been easy for the medical staff trying to keep the wounded alive with no supplies, waiting for help to arrive.

"Get some sleep. You earned it." He stepped forward and the doors opened automatically, allowing him entry into the small room where the scrub sink was set up. The sterile water was tepid, pushed through from the storage vats Scotty had set up. He scrubbed his hands with practiced efficiency.

Twelve patients in eighteen hours. Had to be some kind of a record. He hadn't done marathon surgery since _Enterprise_ had battled the Narada, and even that had only been ten hours.

 _I'm getting too old for this shit._

He blamed Jim for this.

'Come on, Bones, it'll be fun!'

Fun? Six months into their five-year mission and they'd introduced two new planets into the Federation and had three First Contacts. They'd made their way into the outer frontier with only a brief altercation with a pirate ship. It had been a lot of science and diplomacy, cataloging and mapping. This was their first rescue mission.

Hell of a debut. Drying his hands, he walked out of the surgical tent to his first breath of fresh air in eighteen hours. He inhaled deeply – moist and earthy like a Georgia summer morning. God he missed home. Not even a breeze stirred. The sun was coming up on the horizon, reminding him of how long he'd been inside the mobile surgical unit. Craning his neck, he glanced behind at the white walls and pitched roof. It wasn't really a tent. The walls were little more than opaque film that stood out on the lush green landscape, an abomination to the organic environment around it. It was Starfleet's answer to mobile surgery. The entire facility had gone up in less than thirty minutes, like some kind of pop-up toy. Scotty had assured him that, despite the thinness of the walls, the structure was sound and could withstand high winds and the elements. He had to admit that it had served its purpose as an emergency surgical suite. But he was glad they hadn't tested the elements.

He rolled his neck, closing his eyes and feeling the stretch in his muscles and spine.

"Doctor McCoy."

He kept his eyes closed for a moment, his head tilted back, reluctant to surrender his peace. If he could go another thirty seconds without thinking, without making a life-saving decision—

"Doctor McCoy?"

He straightened, opening his eyes to find a Yeoman standing a few meters in front of him. She looked annoyingly refreshed.

"The Captain wants you back on _Enterprise_ , sir."

He looked past her to the small clearing they had chosen as a base when they had beamed down. The planet's foliage was reminiscent of Georgia with thick forests and open meadows. It even smelled of home. They were close by the water, he was told, drawing in the uncomfortable humidity, but he hadn't seen much of the planet, only the small hospital camp they had erected to treat the wounded.

There were three tents in all – one for surgery and two for post op care. All had been filled to capacity. But now he noticed that two more tents had gone up while he'd been in surgery. He narrowed his eyes at the tents. More wounded? They'd told him triage was clear.

He settled his gaze on the Yeoman and walked toward her, motioning toward the new tents. "Are there more wounded?"

Looking toward the tents, she flipped open her communicator. "I'm not sure, sir. I was only told to escort you on board."

He didn't even feel the transporter effect. His body was bone-tired and numb. All he wanted to do was sleep.

"Welcome back, Dr. McCoy," the technician said, the last of his welcome trailing off as he eyed McCoy's clothes.

McCoy looked down at the sweat and blood-stained scrubs and stepped off the pad without a word. The crew had never seen him in scrubs. Surgery on _Enterprise_ was contained, sterile, controlled. Nothing like field surgery – stop the bleeding, stabilize the patient, do what you can with what you have and move on to the next. It wasn't refined and it wasn't pretty.

He walked into the corridor and headed for his quarters. He needed a shower.

"What's the count?" Kirk asked, standing by Spock's station on the bridge. He'd changed into a fresh uniform after showering off the sweat and grime that he had accumulated on the planet while overseeing the rescue.

"One hundred and three deceased, ninety-five wounded. Medical reports twenty-one in critical condition."

He nodded, turning to the main view screen. It could be worse. They'd been in orbit around Outpost Six for a little more than twenty-four hours, but it already felt like days. "Any news from the ground team?"

"They are progressing, Captain, trying to locate the sixty-eight personnel that are still missing in the rubble, but the structure is unstable and unreliable."

He'd been on the surface for most of the past twenty-four hours and had only just returned to update Starfleet. They had answered a distress call from Outpost Six – a newly developed outpost in the outer frontier. The planet was uninhabited of sentient beings and the Federation had set up a scientific outpost. The team had been on the planet for a little over two years without incident when the main structures, which had housed just over three hundred Federation scientists, had collapsed in what they believed was a sudden rise in seismic pressure. "How's Scotty coming on the stabilizers?"

"The planet's surface is making stabilizing the structure difficult and scanners have been unreliable."

He released a breath. It wasn't anything that surprised him. "And the seismic activity? We haven't felt any tremors."

"The data indicates there is no seismic activity on the planet. The scientific team had been conducting extensive tests for over a year with no reported results."

"Something collapsed those buildings."

"Agreed."

The planet was newly discovered. After months of ensuring that the planet was devoid of sentient beings, the Federation gave permission to set up a scientific outpost to conduct, among other things, geological, flora and entomological studies.

"Captain," Uhura said from her station. "Transporter Room has safely beamed Dr. McCoy on board."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." He turned back to Spock and realized for the first time that he'd been squinting against a headache. "Assist Mr. Scott with the stabilizers, and have our geology department review all the material the scientific team has gathered in the two years they've been here."

Spock tilted his head. "Are they looking for anything in particular?"

"I'm not sure." The several permanent buildings the outpost team had erected had all been destroyed, sinking into the planet's surface and reducing the structures to rubble. It seemed a little too coincidental to him that on the entire planet the Federation buildings were the only things to be destroyed. All flora around them remained untouched.

Spock stood. "This is an unknown planet. It is possible the scientific team may have discovered something indigenous to the planet of which they are unaware."

"This planet is uninhabited." He reminded Spock.

"The inhabitants of Celius Five are undetectable to most of our scanners, and yet they exist."

He stared at the Vulcan, deadpan. "Invisible species, Spock?"

"Not invisible, Captain. Undetectable." The dark eyes were hooded, the facial features disciplined. The First Officer looked serious.

"That's a wild theory. Our mission is to rescue the scientists. Unless Starfleet says otherwise, we'll leave the investigation up to the Federation Council. My main concern is getting those sixty-eight beings free. Get a team down there to start interviewing the survivors. If they stumbled onto something, I want to know about it." He turned from the science station and headed toward the turbo lift.

"Where will you be, Captain?"

"Getting a medical report." The turbo lift doors slid shut behind him. He had several hours of reporting to do for Starfleet who was already demanding an update and he needed McCoy's report. The grim task of reporting the dead was second only to the medical team's responsibility of examining those deceased personnel for cause of death and identification verification. McCoy's team would ultimately be responsible for preparing the deceased for transport and reporting to Mortuary Affairs. "Computer, locate Dr. McCoy."

 _Dr. McCoy is located on Deck Six in his quarters._

The lift shifted directions under his command. He had argued with McCoy when the doctor had wanted mobile medical units on the ground. The area was unstable and Kirk had argued it was unsafe, but in the end he had conceded. _Enterprise_ was not equipped to take on the amount of wounded they had anticipated. A ground unit was more practical and effective than transporting wounded Sickbay could not handle.

The lift doors opened and he moved quickly to McCoy's door. After a single buzz, the doors slid open. Stepping inside, he saw McCoy at the small desk, dressed in black shorts and a tight tee, fresh out of the shower.

"Continue the drip and monitor his BP." McCoy acknowledged him with a slight uplift of his chin. "And relieve the post-op staff on the planet."

"Yes, Doctor."

"Wake me in two hours." McCoy cut the comm and focused on Kirk. "I've got a hundred patients, Jim, and two hours to get some sleep. Make this quick."

His friend looked and sounded tired. "I need a report."

McCoy stopped on his way to the sleeping area and turned to him. "I've been in surgery for eighteen hours up to my wrists in blood. I haven't had time to file a _report_."

Kirk winced at the caustic emphasis on McCoy's last word. The scientific team had lost most of their medical staff in the collapse – along with all their medical supplies – leaving a doctor and two nurses to treat the survivors until _Enterprise_ had arrived. They still had two medical personnel that were missing. The crisis had pressed the ship's medical team.

"How's your staff holding up?"

"Tired. Supplies are getting tight." He made his way to the bed, rubbing his eyes.

"Get me a list and I'll send a request to Starbase 11." He watched as McCoy stretched out on the bed with a satisfied groan. "Can we transfer any of the wounded?"

"The request is on your desk … so to speak."

He nodded. He didn't like the mobile units being the primary set up. Though they were reliable structures, the planet was not. They needed to transport the wounded to _Enterprise_ before anything else happened on the planet.

"I saw another unit going up? What's that about?" McCoy asked, closing his eyes.

"Morbidity processing." The Personal Casualty Report process was lengthy and necessary. As the deceased were processed, they too would be transported to _Enterprise_ for their voyage home.

The room was silent for a long moment.

"How many more we got down there?" McCoy asked quietly

"Sixty-eight still missing."

Pause.

"Alive?"

"I'm not sure." He watched his friend for a long moment. There was more he wanted to talk about, questions he needed answers to and advice he sought. But it would have to wait. "Get some sleep. We'll talk later." He left McCoy's quarters and headed toward the bridge. He had to update Starfleet.

Three hours, and a very intense conversation with Starfleet, later, and Kirk wished he had taken some time to sleep or at least eat before making his report. Since stepping from the away room, he had found himself in a non-stop stream of one crisis after another beginning with the transportation of the wounded.

"We can't use the transporter with some of these patients, Captain," M'Benga had told him. "We're going to have to transport the more critically wounded by shuttle."

That made the transportation lengthy and required more medical personnel than the transporter. He signed his approval before forwarding the list of needed medical supplies to Starbase 11. There was the matter of the proper amount of space to house the wounded, the additional medical personnel needed to care for them and balancing the needs of _Enterprise_ with the growing demands of the rescue.

"Lt. Uhura," he said, coming up to the communication station. "Send a message to the _Bradbury_. Tell them we need assistance in transporting the wounded to Starbase 11."

"Yes, Captain."

"Is Scotty still on the planet?"

"Yes, sir. He and Spock are still trying to stabilize the structure."

He didn't like it. The longer it took to retrieve the personnel from the fallen structure, the less likely it was that they would be found alive. "Let them know I'm beaming down, and start coordinating the transportation efforts with medical." He straightened. "Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."

Spock wasn't there to greet him in the designated landing site. The first thing he saw was McCoy directing the transportation of the wounded. He walked up to the doctor. "How many more wounded do we have to transport?"

McCoy turned at the sound of his voice, annoyed at the interruption. "Forty-three, but fifteen have to go by shuttle."

There were only two medical shuttles on the ship and both were in use. He looked around the mobile medical units, buzzing with activity. "You have an ETA?"

McCoy raised his eyebrows. "We're not transporting produce, Jim. Some of these people have just had surgery, others are unstable. I don't want to make them worse by expediting transport. Why the rush?"

"The planet's unstable. I want the wounded off as quickly as possible."

McCoy scowled. "What do you mean by unstable?"

He caught Scotty in the corner of his eye. "Just get the wounded transported as soon as possible, Bones." He turned away and walked across the clearing to Scotty, who was approaching him. "Give me some good news, Scotty."

"I wish I could, sir." Scotty looked grim. "Our scanners cannot locate any life signs, but there's interference from the geological surface. It could be blocking the scanners."

"Can we get in, yet?"

"Not with phasers or mobilizers. The minerals in the first layers are bending the beams. We could end up killing anybody who is alive."

He looked up at the pale sky. The sun was high and heating the surface resulting in a dense, heavy humidity that seemed to cling to their every breath. A trickle of sweat rolled down his neck. "We're just going to have to do this the old fashioned way. Find the most stable area and get a crew to start removing the rubble. Maybe if we clear some of the debris our scanners will have better luck."

"Aye, sir. That could work. We'll need more crew."

He nodded. "Get them." His communicator beeped and he flipped it open. "Yes, Sulu."

"Sir, we've received a priority one call from Starfleet. We are being ordered to assist the _Aurora_ in the Patheon System. Their life support and power are failing."

The _Aurora_ was a civilian transport vessel with over five-hundred souls on board. Spock joined him, listening carefully.

"There's no other ship in the area?"

"No, sir. The _Bradbury_ is closer to us than them. The _Aurora_ estimates less than three days of life support. They're drifting to conserve power."

He looked at Spock.

"If the _Aurora_ estimates are correct, _Enterprise_ must leave now."

He looked around the base camp. The wounded were still being transported and there were still sixty-eight beings trapped in the rubble. "Take her, Spock. I'll stay down here and continue the rescue efforts."

"Captain, I don't think that is wise. We are still uncertain as to what caused the destruction of the outpost." Spock's eyes were intense.

"We don't have much choice, Spock. We can't leave the wounded and we can't leave those sixty-eight souls buried."

"Then I will remain behind and coordinate rescue efforts."

He pulled back slightly. Spock had barely paused for a breath. "Why you? You don't think I'm capable of conducting a rescue?"

"That is not what—Of course you are capable, Captain, but your expertise is better put to use on _Enterprise_."

"So is yours," he shot back, then he softened. "Don't worry, Spock. _Bradbury_ is right behind you. We won't be alone for long."

"What do you mean 'they're leaving'? The whole damn ship?" McCoy stared at Kirk with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

"Priority distress call, Bones. We have to answer it."

"What the hell do you call this?" McCoy asked, spreading his arms out to indicate the mobile medical units, still partially full. They stood in the small open area outside the surgical unit with the sun beating down on them. "Jim, there are still wounded."

"We're not leaving them behind, Bones," he said reassuringly. "I'm staying here with Scotty and the rescue team. Assign a medical staff and doctor to oversee the remaining wounded and to continue processing the deceased. We can't get them back to _Enterprise,_ so we'll have to make do with what we have."

"Make do— Jesus, Jim, this isn't Academy maneuvers. There are over a hundred dead and in this heat that's not going to be pretty. We can't leave them down here."

"We don't have time to transport them. All the critical patients have been transferred to _Enterprise_. The medical staff will be able to handle their needs. How many patients are still here?"

"Just two." McCoy wiped away the drops of sweat that had gathered on his forehead. "They've got some kind of a bacterial infection. I don't want to transfer them right now."

He scowled. "Is it contagious?"

"Not likely, but I'm not taking any chances. I'll keep six nurses, four techs and Lyke down here." McCoy pulled at the collar of his tunic. "That should be enough."

He cringed slightly. "Are you comfortable leaving Lyke in charge? He's a second year resident, isn't he?"

" _He's_ not going to be in charge. If you're staying, so am I."

He raised his eyebrows. " _You're_ volunteering for a landing party?"

"Don't let it go to your head. If I die down here you'll have a month of paperwork to do."

"You're not going to die," he said quickly, wiping the sweat from his neck. "The _Bradbury_ is two days out. You can stay alive that long, can't you?"

"Can you?" McCoy shot back then looked around the base camp. "Where the hell are we going to sleep? And please don't tell me under the stars."

"I'm having Yeoman Nelson set up living quarters for the crew and medical staff. That should make things more bearable."

"Bearable? These units aren't environmentally controlled." Only the surgical unit had environment controls and those were minimal at best. "I'm going to be treating dehydration and heatstroke for the next two days." McCoy studied him with a critical eye. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I'm fine, Bones. Worry about your patients."

"Just don't become one of my patients." McCoy took a deep breath and looked around. "We can convert one of the post op units into a triage for minor injuries and treatment. I'll inventory supplies, but, Jim … if we retrieve dozens of seriously injured from the structure, I'm not sure we have enough supplies or medical personnel to treat them."

He'd thought of that himself. "We'll just have to hope those beings are alive and not critical."

McCoy looked dubious. "They've already been down there for two days. How close are we to getting them out?"

"Scotty's working on it."

"Do we even know they're alive?"

He looked past the opening to the mass of trees beyond. They were too far away to see the original settlement. "That's what I'm going to find out. Get the supplies you need before _Enterprise_ moves out."

"Jim," McCoy called after him. "Be careful. And eat something."

He met Scotty at the fallen structures. There were four buildings, all of which had sunk into the surface, leaving pieces of broken construction materials sticking out like engineered hills. The crew were carefully removing large pieces of rubble, and from the look of things, they were making slow progress. Scotty had an array of equipment spread out a short distance from the structures. It looked like a miniature control center.

"How's it coming, Scotty?"

The sophisticated equipment was light, designed to be mobile. It rested on narrow poles with wide monitors that blinked and beeped with activity.

"We're focusing on this main structure. According to the scientists we interviewed, most of the personnel were here when the collapse happened. As soon as we clear enough, I'll send down a probe." He looked up from his equipment. " _Enterprise_ leave?"

"They should have by now." He felt a strange anxiety within him that his ship was away from him, but he pushed the feeling aside and nodded at Scotty. "Thanks for staying."

"Ach. Ivy can handle the ship until I get back. He'll be good with the _Aurora_. He grew up on one of those things." Scotty looked to the fallen structure. "I hope we're digging in the right spot."

 _So do I_. He looked around the structure. "It's damn odd that this is the only thing that got hit."

"Aye. I thought as much myself. Maybe the surface couldn't handle the structure. San Francisco had that problem in the mid twenty-first century. Most of the architecture sank into the damn bay."

"Mm." San Francisco sank because the civilian population had built on landfill with the bay eroding it every day. The bedrock was a hundred meters down. But this…. They were too far from any water to have erosion cause the collapse. Around the structure were open fields that pressed against the edges of a heavy forest. Beyond the tree tops the peaks of green and blue mountains rose.

"Hard to believe it's uninhabited," Scotty said.

Not exactly uninhabited. There were plenty of insects and reptiles. "Keep at it. I'm going to take a look around."

Scotty nodded and returned his focus to the equipment.

He walked to the south side of the structure, studying the ground. Something didn't feel right. He stopped frequently to study the layout and listen. A high-pitched whine sounded from the fields, like a swarm of cicadas that filled the hot Iowa nights. The structure had sunk deep into the surface, leaving most of the surrounding area untouched. It wasn't unheard of to have sink holes appear on a planet, but it was usually caused by man-made structures below or the depletion of water tables, neither of which applied here. This planet had never had inhabitants. He stood a good sixty meters from the rubble and crouched on his heels. The smell of the long grass filled his nose and he was instantly reminded of Iowa – running through the neighbor's wheat fields and playing hide-n-seek with Sam by the trees along the river.

He dug his fingers into the soil. It was surprisingly moist and rich, like something found in a greenhouse. He brought the handful of soil to his nose and inhaled, closing his eyes. His grandfather had been a fourth generation farmer. He had only known the man for a few years, but he'd taught Jim how to respect the land, how to feel it.

 _"_ _It's living and breathing, just like us," his grandfather said, holding a handful of earth. "It'll always be there for you, Jimmy. The way it's been here for thousands of years."_

 _He leaned in and sniffed the soil with curiosity, scowling as he did so._

 _Grandfather laughed. "You were born in space, Jimmy, but your roots are in the earth."_

After his grandfather had died, he'd stopped paying attention. Then Frank came along and everything changed. But now, smelling the rich soil, it all came back to him – those carefree days of childhood he'd somehow buried deep. It was easy to forget that he'd once been happy on the farm.

"Captain?"

The voice drew his attention from his memories. He opened his eyes and tilted his head to see the young man standing awkwardly a few meters from him. "Yes, Ensign Lo."

"Mr. Scott thought you might need some assistance, sir."

Eager ensigns. He sighed and looked down at the handful of dirt, suddenly reluctant to let it go. Slowly, he let the soil sift through his fingers and return to the surface. Pushing up from his legs, an unexpected pain dug into his back causing him to stagger slightly. Shit. It was sharp, demanding and only too familiar. He grit his teeth and straightened more slowly, allowing his back muscles a chance to adjust. It had been this way for a few months now. The injury from being thrown against the core's wall had been giving him problems. He noticed it more when he was pushing himself and hadn't gotten enough rest, as if his body was reminding him of his mortality. Each time it happened, he promised himself he would tell Bones, but he never did.

The pain died down and he dusted off his hands and searched the area. There was nothing here. Whatever mystery was behind the sinking of the structure, it was not going to be solved by reminiscing. The sun had dipped a little lower, but the temperature hadn't decreased a degree. "Thank you, Ensign, but I don't think I'm going to find anyth—"

The surface shifted beneath his feet, abruptly halting his words. It was a slight movement. So slight he wasn't certain he had felt it. He shifted his weight, focused on the ground.

"Sir?" Ensign Lo stood frowning at him.

Nothing moved. The ground was solid and still. Yet his muscles were tense and the hairs on the back of his neck were up.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

Sweat trickled off his forehead and neck. What had Bones said about treating heatstroke? He'd been in the sun too long. He raised his gaze to the anxious Ensign and smiled. "No, Ensign Lo. Everything's fine."

He took a step toward the Ensign. And the ground disappeared. One moment he was standing on solid land, the next the ground was gone. He felt himself falling in a cloud of dust, hitting the surface hard with the flat of his back, sending another explosion of pain into his middle and causing him to see a white starburst against his tightly closed eyes. Around him was an avalanche of dirt, raining down on him as he lay still, coughing from the dust in his lungs. Everything stopped as the dust hung thickly. Blinking to clear his eyes, he coughed harshly in an attempt to expel the dirt he'd managed to inhale. Above him was the pale sky. It took him a moment to realize he'd landed on his back and that he hadn't fallen far.

Fuck. His ears were ringing and his back hurt. The wind was knocked out of him, but nothing seemed broken, though he wasn't in a hurry to move and test that theory. Suddenly Lo's head appeared from the top of the small pit.

"Sir, are you all right?" Lo's face was full of alarm.

The dust was settling quickly. Kirk coughed again, his ribs and back protesting. He took a few measured breaths. "I'm fine, Ensign." His voice was scratchy and not in the least bit commanding.

Lo suddenly looked stricken. "Oh my God, sir. Don't move. Don't move! I'll get help."

"Ensign—"

He was about to tell the young man not to panic, that he was all right, but Lo had disappeared. Kirk closed his eyes. Great. The worst case scenario is for the rescuer to need to be rescued. It was the first rule in retrieval: take care of yourself. He made a move to sit up, but cried out as agony ripped through his right knee, sending him back to the dirt. The pain ripped upwards into his groin. For a moment, everything went black. By the time the veil lifted, his throbbing knee consumed his attention. He lifted his head, trying not to move his body, and angled his head to see his right leg. It was twisted at an odd angle and covered in a thick layer of dust.

And then he saw it.

"Shit," he said and let his head fall back with a thud. Bones wasn't going to be happy about this. A piece of broken branch protruded from his knee, tearing through his pant leg. He wasn't going anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't a branch from a tree. It was a root. It had torn through Kirk's right knee from beneath and Scotty had to sever the root from the ground to get him out of the hole. The extraction, while done with surgical precision, was agonizing for Kirk. Each time Scotty moved his leg, a wave of pain ripped from his knee to his groin. He vomited after the first five minutes of Scotty's attempts to extract him. By the time he'd been freed from the root and they had hoisted him out of the hole, he was pale and shaking and his knee … his knee was on fire.

He clutched at Scotty, his fingers digging into the man's flesh. "Code Yellow," he stammered out.

"Aye, sir. Right now we gotta get you out of here."

As carefully and quickly as they could, they laid him on a stretcher, but any movement was agony and he cried out with each step they took. His knee was twisted and the root penetrated through flesh and cartilage, sticking out where the kneecap was supposed to be. Blood soaked his pant leg, but it was the least of his concerns. His knee was in constant pain, firing off the nerves in his belly and sending every muscle in his body into tiny spasms. He didn't want to be moved. He wanted to rest and catch his breath, stop his knee from generating the stabbing pain that radiated from it. But the moment they laid him on the stretcher they were moving with practiced execution.

Scotty pulled out his communicator and spoke rapidly into it as they raced him along the narrow path that connected the fallen structures to the medical settlement. He didn't hear what was being said. The blood rushing in his ears drowned out all sound. He closed his eyes and pressed his head to the stretcher. He felt the root grinding against bone and cartilage with each step the team took. Someone put a hand to his forehead, rough palm laid against his hot flesh. He wasn't certain if it was to provide support or comfort. It didn't matter. He was trying to breathe and keep his knee from moving. He was failing at both.

"What the hell happened?" a familiar voice demanded.

He opened his eyes and saw he was entering the medical unit. They brought the stretcher to an exam table and rested it on the flat surface. Kirk groaned in pain, his breath coming in rapid staccato. Sweat rolled off his face as his fingers twisted into the hem of his tunic. Whatever was said, he didn't hear, but McCoy stood by the table with a scowl, putting a steady hand to Kirk's hip.

Scanners whirled and there seemed to be constant motion around him. He focused on the white ceiling, trying to calm his breathing, to slow the rapid beat of his heart, when his stomach convulsed. Hands supported him as he emptied what little he had in his stomach into a small basin that had appeared. The sting of a hypo to the side of his neck barely registered. His left hand was being held and he felt the pinch of an IV being started.

"Bones …." His voice was strained and stretched thin. The agony in his knee dulled to a deep throb.

McCoy appeared in his line of sight. "That was for the pain. It should help."

He nodded, swallowing past the bitter taste on his tongue. Breathing heavily, he tried to keep still, but the pain made it impossible.

"We're starting some fluids." McCoy's face was mapped with lines of concern and his expression had taken on the familiar clinical mask that was a perfect balance between thoughtfulness and compassion.

"His vitals, Doctor."

McCoy studied the PADD. "Give him 10cc of Varium. And get me a C1 scanner." He dropped his gaze to Kirk. "I told you to be careful." He blindly reached out for the scanner that was pressed into his hands. Positioning the scanner over the injured knee, he scowled at the results. "Let's get these pants clear."

A nurse cut through the material, carefully working around the protruding root, up his thigh to his hip. As the material gave way, his hands clenched into fists, the IV catheter pinching as his hand flexed. A cool set of fingers circled his wrist. He tensed as McCoy moved towards his knee. But the doctor only placed a hand on the flat of his abdomen, trying to steady him as he inspected the wound. He hadn't gotten a good look at it himself and he tried to focus on it now, cringing at what he saw.

The root was more than five centimeters in diameter and the tip jutted out another ten centimeters. Covered in blood and dirt, it hardly looked as if it could do so much damage.

"S'kay?" he slurred. He was starting to feel floaty and soft. What the hell had McCoy given him?

It took McCoy a minute or so longer before he turned back to him. The doctor's somber expression didn't offer him any reassurance. "There's a lot of damage. I'm going to have to operate and repair the ligaments and tendons. Your cartilage is shot to hell."

His heart rate was finally slowing and he could gather his thoughts somewhat. "So … not so bad."

"Not so good, either. Aside from the fact that you have a foreign object penetrating your knee, I don't have replacements down here. The real reconstruction is going to have to wait until I can get you on board _Enterprise_. All I can do is repair what you have and clean the wound."

His head was throbbing despite the painkiller. So much for leading the rescue. "Scotty here?"

"I'm right here, sir."

"Section off the area." It was a struggle to speak. The words were cumbersome on his tongue.

"Already done, sir. We're at Code Yellow as you ordered."

"Keep em working." His eyes closed. They couldn't waste time with him. They had to keep digging.

McCoy's hand left his abdomen and moved to circle his bicep, giving it a reassuring squeeze. A hot flush of medication entered the IV. He didn't remember anything more.

A steaming cup of coffee suddenly appeared in front of McCoy. He was sitting on a bench outside the surgical unit. He hadn't showered yet and his clothes clung to his sticky flesh. The sun had gone down but the air was still unmoving and hot. He knew he should clean up and check on Jim in post-op, but once he'd sat down, he'd lost all inclination to move. The smell of coffee perked him up. He raised his eyes to see Chapel holding the cup out to him with a soft smile.

"Is that real?" It smelt real.

"One of the perks of working for Federation scientists – they have a big budget."

He took the cup and inhaled again. "I haven't had real coffee since we left Earth."

"Enjoy it. There's only one pot left. Until the crew digs up more, it's replicator coffee."

"So this is contraband."

She smiled at him and he was amazed that she could look so refreshed and … young after the three days they had been through. A moment later, she turned away and looked over the small camp. The area was well-lit with portable lights, but the dark shadows of the surrounding forest pressed them into a tight circle. Scotty had set up a security perimeter as a precaution, but the forest still felt ominous.

He sipped his coffee, savoring the first taste on his tongue before swallowing with satisfaction. "You did good work in there," he told her.

She didn't respond, but kept staring into the small medical settlement as if she were searching for something. And yet she was as relaxed and subdued as she had been from the moment he had met her. She'd assisted him with Jim's surgery, volunteering despite being as tired as he was. It hadn't been an easy surgery. The root had done significant damage and most of it was unrepairable with what limited supplies they had on hand. Jim's system wouldn't tolerate synthetic replacements, so he was left with repairing what he could, which wasn't much. The real concern was cleaning the wound. Microorganisms were difficult to detect and even Earth's soil could cause infections when introduced to the body in the same manner this soil had been. He was flooding Jim's system with antibiotics as a precaution.

"Think he'll be all right?" Chapel suddenly asked.

"The Captain?" he asked from the rim of his cup.

She turned to him and he realized just how young she was, how uncertain. They were stranded on this planet for all intents and purposes and just minutes ago the commanding officer was in front of her on the surgical table.

"He'll be all right. Jim bounces back from these things. He won't like it though." Jim was going to be confined to bed until _Enterprise_ or the _Bradbury_ showed up.

She nodded, and then seemed to pull herself out of her reverie. "You should get some sleep. I'll check on Ji—the Captain in post-op."

He wanted to argue with her, but Jim's injuries weren't critical. And he really needed some sleep. He downed the rest of his coffee and stood, handing her back the cup. "Watch his vitals. No medications unless I prescribe them."

"Yes, Doctor."

Good woman. Tough spot.

He walked toward the small tent that had been assigned to the senior officers. Scotty was already asleep on his cot, stripped down to his skivvies. It reminded him he hadn't showered yet. Fuck. He was too tired. He looked at the empty cot that was to have been Jim's and fell into his own with an exaggerated groan.

"What?" Scotty came alive from his dead sleep, half out of bed before his brain registered the movement.

McCoy stared at him nonplussed. "Relax. It's not red alert."

Scotty blinked. "All right then." He looked around the tent. "How's Jim?"

"Fine. His knee is for shit though." He closed his eyes, letting his body sink into the thin cushion.

"Aye. Bad luck. Only Jim would stand on a sink hole."

Is that what had happened? He hadn't heard the particulars.

"Well," Scotty continued, " _Bradbury_ will be here soon enough."

He opened one eye. "How soon?"

"Two days or so."

He rose up on his elbows. "Or so?"

"Aye. They gotta come through the grid. There's no predicting that."

He scowled. "Can we get word to _Enterprise_?"

"Subspace."

Terrific. He pressed back into the cot. His head hurt. He shouldn't have had that coffee. "How is the recovery coming?"

"They're still digging." Scotty lay back onto his cot. "Hope they'll have better luck than Jim."

Amen to that.

A high-pitched sound called him out of the darkness. Once, when he was five, he fell out of the barn loft. He'd laid on the hard-packed ground trying to catch his breath and listened with irritation to the cicadas singing around him, as if they were cheering on his misery. Sam found him later. His arm had been broken in the fall and he'd begged Sam not to tell Frank that he'd been playing in the loft. But Sam had called the emergency responders and by the time they had arrived, Frank had awakened from his drunken slumber to play the role of despondent parent.

"It's all right, Jimmy," Sam had told him, smoothing his hair as they loaded him onto the transport. "It's all right."

"It's all right," the soft, feminine voice said.

He swam his way up from the cool darkness, through layers of thick fog and murky thoughts. His mouth was dry and stuffed with cotton, and his muscles felt like someone had pummeled him into submission.

"It's all right."

Who's all right? He opened his eyes a fraction. Soft light greeted him against overly white walls. The diffused world just out of his reach seemed alien. The air was warmer than he liked and the faintest breeze caressed his skin, but only seemed to stir the heat. A throbbing in his knee started to radiate into his thigh. He moved his arm, trying to orient himself. It was too quiet, too still.

"You have to keep still," a woman said. A light hand touched his bare arm.

Taking a few breaths, he blinked and forced himself to fully wake. An unfamiliar face floated above him. The woman was young and pretty with a pale complexion, soft blue eyes and the pinkest lips he'd ever seen. Her blond hair was pulled back into a complicated braid that framed her face beautifully.

"Uh." His first word got stuck on his tongue and he licked his dry lips.

"Here," she said and held a glass of water for him to sip.

The water wet his mouth and he drank greedily, until she suddenly pulled it away.

"That's enough for now."

His head began to pound. "Where am I?"

"In post-op care." Then she added. "One of the medical tents."

Tent? Right. He'd fallen … fallen from _Enterprise_. No. You can't fall from a ship. The throbbing in his knee had progressed to a deep stabbing pain that was requiring more of his attention. Despite the pain, his leg felt heavy and paralyzed. Even his foot felt lifeless.

"Do you remember?" she asked, her sculpted brows drawing into a frown.

He was on Outpost Six. _Enterprise_ had gone. He lifted his head to get a view of his right leg and the cause of his discomfort. It was elevated on pillows, bent slightly at the knee, which was wrapped with thick bandages. A drain stuck out from the bandages, its thin tubing streaked with red. He let his head fall back onto the pillows that cushioned his head. Fuck.

"Jim, do you know where you are?" she asked, still frowning.

"I know where I am." His voice was scratchy and weak, but it still had the command tone he wanted. He didn't know this person. She must be one of the nurses from the outpost. A wave of dizziness washed through him. He closed his eyes. His heart was pounding rapidly, filling his ears with a rushing sound.

A cool cloth pressed to his forehead. He opened his eyes and looked at the woman as she moved the cloth to cool his face and neck. "What's your name?"

She seemed surprised at the question. Her hands stilled in their gentle application and a strange emotion passed over her face. Anger? Astonishment? Had they been introduced before?

"You're not Starfleet," he said.

The emotion disappeared into a professional medical mask he recognized only too well.

She finished her ministrations and removed the cloth. "No. I'm not Starfleet."

The stabbing in his knee was drawing more attention from him and getting more difficult to ignore. He tried to shift, as if to move away from the pain, but all he could manage was to shift an arm beneath him before she placed a hand on his chest to halt him.

"Lie still." Her voice was sharp and with an edge that didn't match the softness of her face. "You're just out of surgery."

His ears were ringing – or was that the insects singing outside? – and his arm was shaking and wouldn't hold him anyway, so he fell back down, breathing heavily from the exertion, while still trying to maintain a sense of command. "Where's McCoy?"

"Sleeping," she said flatly. "You're stuck with me."

That was a strange thing to say. He made an effort to smile and meet her eyes. "Not a bad place to be."

Her face was frozen into the clinical mask, devoid of any humor, any notion of taking a bite from the charm he was offering.

He tried again. "What's your name?"

Her lips compressed into a tight line, draining the delicate pink color. He was trying to figure out what he'd done to piss her off when she stood abruptly.

"You should get some sleep. And don't move around. It'll only cause you more pain and you can't have any more pain meds." Her voice was flat and matter-of-fact, as if she were talking about a poorly made bed instead of him.

"Thanks for the advice." His knee was on fire, sending a stream of white-hot lava up his thigh but he'd be damn if he'd let her know.

"Dr. McCoy will be by in the morning."

Morning? What time was it? He looked around the tent. It was dimly lit without windows. How long had he been here?

She made some adjustment to his IV and gave him a final glance. "There's a night nurse here if you need anything."

What he needed was McCoy. And a different nurse. "You're not staying?" He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Not this time." She walked away and he saw her stop and speak to another nurse. The tent wasn't very large and he saw that there were two other beds occupied, both patients sleeping.

Lucky bastards.

He pressed into the cushion of his pillows and closed his eyes, willing the pain away. But it didn't let up. The room was hot and he noticed, for the first time, that a large fan on the ceiling circulated the air in a vain attempt to offer some comfort. He pushed at the light blanket that covered him, his IV line dancing in the light. He was naked beneath the blanket and sticky with sweat. His injured leg was bare, the blanket tucked neatly around his groin, but the thick pad of bandages that covered his leg from mid-calf to mid-thigh offered him only another layer of suffocation.

The nurse, Tani, a young, petite redhead whom he recognized from _Enterprise,_ approached his bed with a placid expression. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

A new leg. His hand curled into the blanket edge as a wave of pain struck him. "No."

She stood next to the bed and punched at the keys on the small, flat display near the head of the bed. He wasn't in a biobed. The mobile beds were strong and sat slightly lower than those on _Enterprise_ , and lacked the automatic biofeedback technology. To compensate, several, tiny monitors stuck to his chest and ribs, feeding a litany of vitals to his chart. Tani moved to his right foot and felt his pulse at his ankle then moved to cover his toes before removing her hand.

"Wiggle your toes for me."

He tried and thought he succeeded, but in truth, he could barely feel his foot. His knee felt as if someone was taking great delight in driving a knife into it … repeatedly.

She straightened and moved up toward his head. "Can I get you some water?"

"Yes, thank you." He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he downed the glass of tepid water. Processed water. It left the faint taste of metal on his tongue. Handing the glass back, his noticed his hand was shaking. He almost dropped the glass, but she was quicker, catching it deftly as it slipped from his weak fingers.

"Try to rest, sir," she said and left him.

God, he hated nurses. How in the hell was he supposed to rest when his knee burned like someone had stuck a hot poker into it. Where the hell were his pain meds? Where was Bones? And why the hell was it so damn hot in here?

He closed his eyes and counted, an old trick he'd learned in adolescence as pain control. The idea was to keep a steady count and match his breath with it. It only lasted until twenty-two and his mind would drift with the pain and he'd have to begin all over again. He'd lost count of how many times he'd had to start over and was deep into his count when he heard Bones. Or maybe he'd sensed him. He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he opened his eyes and there was Bones, staring down at him with a scowl. His friend's hair was wet and his skin freshly scrubbed. He had donned a short-sleeved tunic and looked well-rested. It irritated Kirk and he had no reason to be irritated other than he was hot, sweaty and his knee screamed in pain.

Bones didn't say anything, just stood there staring at him with a scowl, compressing his lips into a tight line, so Kirk knew he was pissed. Bones looked away at the panel and IV and called the nurse over with a crisp, short command.

"Yes, Doctor," she said, coming to stand by the bed.

"Get me 15 ccs of Piarox."

"Yes, Doctor."

When Bones looked at him again his expression had shifted into concern and regret. "Why didn't you tell Tani you were in pain?"

"It's not bad," he lied, but he couldn't uncurl his fingers from their tight grip on the blanket.

Bones said nothing, just compressed his lips into a thinner line. Tani arrived with a hypo and Bones wasted no time pressing it to his neck. The flood of medication burned along his neck.

"You're an idiot," Bones said, but there was no malice in his voice, only a kind of helpless resignation, then he turned to Tani. "Desk."

They walked away as the mediation took hold, loosening his muscles and weighing down his bones. His thoughts cleared as the pain in his knee lessened, and he was offered the first relief he'd had in hours. He hadn't realized how much he was holding on to the pain until it had been reduced to a dull throbbing. Slowly, his fingers uncurled, his back relaxed and he made a conscious effort to slow his breathing. It was as if a veil had been lifted and he was suddenly acutely aware of his surroundings – the soft bed, the sounds of crew outside moving about, the faint hint of peat in the air. Despite the primitive surroundings, there was something about it that reminded him of home.

He rolled his head along the pillow and saw that McCoy's face was twisted into an angry expression as he chewed out Tani, whose own face had crumpled and turned ashen. Fuck, Kirk thought, if McCoy was going to be pissed at anyone it should be the nurse from last night. He liked Tani.

Bones turned away first, pivoting on his heels and marching back to Kirk with a scowl. By the time the doctor got to Kirk's bed, his expression had calmed and the scowl had softened. His friend's ability to switch from anger to composure always amazed him. It must be something in the medical training, he thought, some skill McCoy had mastered that allowed him to compartmentalize his emotions. It was difficult to tell if he was still angry.

"Your blood pressure is coming down," McCoy said, glancing at the monitor. "You were supposed to be sleeping. I might have known you couldn't even accomplish that."

Yeah, he was still pissed.

McCoy pinned him with an unflinching stare. "Feeling better?"

"Than what?"

McCoy raised his eyebrows. An almost woeful expression ghosted over his face. "There was a lot of damage, Jim. Removing a foreign object from a complex joint like a knee isn't easy. There's no tendons or ligaments left. I can't even brace the joint." He expelled a soft breath. "This is as good as I can get it down here."

Maybe it was the painkiller or the worn expression on his friend's face or the dire diagnosis that had been unceremoniously delivered, but he actually felt guilty. "It's all right, Bones."

McCoy shook his head. "No, it's not. There are a dozen things that can go wrong. I don't even want to think about the unknown bacteria and microorganisms that could be having a party in your blood right now. Not to mention that we're stranded on this godforsaken planet—"

"We're not stranded."

"—with _limited_ medical supplies, mobile tents and sink holes that appear out of nowhere."

" _Bradbury_ is less than two days out." His words slurred slightly and his eyes were starting to droop. The medication pulled him down into a gray fog that dulled his nerves and muddled his thoughts.

McCoy snorted and moved to his injured leg, putting cool hands on his ankle and foot and squeezing slightly. "Can you feel that?"

"Mm. Feels good." His eyes closed, letting the darkness come.


	3. Chapter 3

Christine Chapel stood under the shower, letting the hot water rain uninhibited on her naked body. The showers were set behind the medical units, tall, narrow cubicles with only enough room to raise her elbows. The thin walls flexed when the wind hit them and did nothing to block the sounds of the crew moving outside, so that she felt as if she were showering in the middle of a crowded assembly. But she didn't care about that or the sterile white unappealing walls that surrounded her. She raised her face to the steady pattern of water beating down on her. For the first time in her life, she was enjoying unrestricted use of water. The water was pulled from the planet and flash-filtered then heated before being pushed through the pipes and shower head to pour down on her – unmonitored, unrestricted, boundless. It was filtered again before being returned to the planet. There was something so perfect about the process, so cyclic in nature that she found an innocuous pleasure in it.

She could stay in the shower for hours without consequences or guilt. After all, the planet was going to get it back. It wasn't as if she was stealing something, and certainly no one was going without because of her indulgence. Anyway, she had earned it. The collapse of the buildings, no medical supplies … all those beings dead, souls she had shared meals with and cared for when they were sick. It had been the first place she'd called home since leaving the Academy … since leaving him.

She shut the shower off abruptly. She wasn't going to go there. She wasn't going to regurgitate it all again. She was not going to be angry, sad, hurt. She'd worked too hard to get here, to forget him. Hell, she'd flown to the farthest outreaches of space to get away. And just when she found her moment of peace, just when she'd gone days without thinking of him, just when her heart had started to heal he showed up in the middle of a crisis looking all commanding and charming and doing what he did best – make an impossible situation possible.

The air driers blew across her skin, licking away the drops of water. She closed her eyes to the memories that flooded her – the firmness of his kisses, the gentleness of his touch, the way his eyes changed color during sex, and the playfulness that infused everything he did. That's what she had loved the most about him – the enthusiasm he displayed in life, the unbridled fearlessness, as if he were untouchable. Except, as she now knew, he wasn't.

The blowers stopped and she sighed. Unrestricted or not, she couldn't spend the rest of her time on this planet hiding in the shower, waiting for him to leave. And besides, she was going to be nursing him. There was no way out of it. She opened the thin door and stepped into the changing area. She'd managed to avoid him for two days, thought maybe he'd stay away from medical, stay on his ship (the damn ship he seemed to love so much), and then move on. Crisis over. They'd rebuild with Starfleet Engineering. She'd get re-assigned. Life would go on. And he'd never know she was even there. That had been the plan anyway.

But he'd been rushed into the medical tent, injured and shaking in pain, and Dr. McCoy had grabbed her and pressed her into service and there was nowhere for her hide. Seeing him in pain, vulnerable and in need, had evaporated all her anger, and then her training had kicked in and she'd simply moved. He'd been in no condition to recognize her and she had been grateful for it. For a few hours, he was just another patient, just another body to repair. But later … later she couldn't pretend he was anyone other than who he'd been. And what was worse, it had become painfully obvious to her that he hadn't changed at all.

How could he not remember her?

She'd seen him recite paragraphs from text books, along with the hundreds of regulations he'd memorized, history dates and data rolling off his tongue like well-rehearsed greetings. He had a steel-trap mind and an iron-clad will and excelled at everything he did with very little effort. So why didn't he remember her? Did he sleep with so many females that he couldn't keep them straight? Or was she just that forgettable?

"Hi, Christine."

She'd just stepped out into the morning air, exchanging one humid environment for another. The sun was just over the tree line, striking down on the surface mercilessly. Another hot day. Her hair was still wet and clinging to the back of her neck. She picked it off her skin and smiled at her companion. "Hi, Char. You drew the short straw, huh?"

"Volunteered." She was a tall Betazoid with a full figure and pale, gray eyes that faded to silver under the full strength of the sun. She'd been here before Christine, studying the effects of remote duty on various beings. "It's hot."

Christine nodded, squinting at the sun. "Maybe it'll rain before we leave."

The meteorological equipment had been destroyed in the collapse like everything else.

"You going on duty?" Char asked.

"Yes."

"I heard all the patients were transferred to _Enterprise_. Should be quiet."

"Not all the patients," she said mildly, looking in the direction of the medical tent. "I have to change."

"Change is part of personal growth, self-expression. Necessity."

She turned to her companion with a droll expression. "I meant my clothes, Char."

"Just checking," Char said cheekily. "Meet for dinner in the center?"

"Sure. What are you doing today?"

"Helping out with the recovery. We're trying to get a read on the survivors. The equipment isn't cooperating. I heard Captain Kirk got caught in a sink hole."

She nodded.

"Nothing serious?"

"No. I gotta go." She walked across the small compound to the tent that had been assigned to her and three other medical personnel. _Enterprise_ had supplied them with fresh clothes days ago and she had happily accepted them; her own had been soiled and damaged. Starfleet issued uniforms were heavy, but the medical uniforms were lightweight and loose fitting. She donned a short-sleeved tunic and loose pants. The material was cooling in the heat and allowed the skin to breathe. She skillfully braided her hair and left for the medical tent.

She loved her job, but today she wished she could be anywhere else but in that tent. She hadn't decided to be a nurse until after she'd joined the Academy. She had a double study, nursing being one of them, physics being the other. It had been physics that drew him to her. She'd given a lecture to the class, her paper having been chosen by the Academy Board as an exemplary model of theoretical physics. He'd come up to her after class, buzzing around her like a live wire, and she'd immediately rejected him.

She stepped into the medical tent. Only three patients remained in the tent that less than twenty-four hours ago had housed forty-three. Now it was a combination of post-op care and a main ward, with a single nursing station in the center and a row of beds lining the wall on each side. Since they had erected the tent, it had been full and bustling with activity. Now it looked like a failed project whose owner refused to abandon. Watson and Emery, the two patients isolated near the north end, stared at her as she entered, making her feel oddly exposed. At the main desk, she saw Dr. McCoy hunched over a computer screen, and she winced. She had wanted to arrive before him. She hated herself, but she let her gaze drift to the bed at the south end, separate from the others, but closest to the nursing desk. He looked like he was sleeping. Was he in less pain?

"Nurse Chapel," McCoy said.

She immediately tore her gaze away with a guilty start. "Yes, Doctor."

"We need to run some blood tests."

"For Watson and Emery?" They were geologists from the outpost and she knew they were running a fever of unknown origin. She thought McCoy was being overly cautious. It wasn't unusual for members of the outpost to have fevers.

"No," he said looking up at her. "For Captain Kirk. Draw some blood and run a full spectrum. With all that dirt in his wound it's going to be a miracle if he doesn't get an infection."

She stood frozen. A hundred images raced through her mind and she rejected them all.

"Nurse?" McCoy asked, staring at her with concern. "Are you all right?"

Shaking off the memories, she smiled quickly. "Yes."

"Tired?" he asked. "Wish I could tell you to take the day off, but …."

"I'm fine. No coffee this morning. I'll get the sample." She took a few steps.

"Try not to wake him. I gave him a hefty dose, but he doesn't always stay under and we're going to have to start thinning the pain meds."

She disciplined herself from frowning. His wound, while not life-threatening, was very painful. With no brace to support the knee or cartilage to hold it together, any movement caused riveting pain. To thin the meds meant he'd be in a lot of pain until McCoy could properly treat the wound.

"Check his drain," McCoy continued. "I'm going to go to the site. Comm me if you need anything."

"Yes, Doctor." She watched McCoy leave then took a moment to look around the tent. The fans were circulating the warm air. She knew from experience that in five hours the tent would be stifling … and his pain meds would have worn off.

 _Don't get involved_ , she chastised herself. _He doesn't even remember you. You're just another nurse. Do your job. Nothing else._

Feeling more buoyed, she gathered the equipment she needed and walked to his bed. He was sleeping heavily, his face relaxed into a peaceful repose, mouth slightly open with soft breaths. A sheen of sweat stained his forehead, darkening the strands of hair that fell onto the pale flesh. She had thought his hair had always been a little unruly for Starfleet, despite the close crop to the back of his neck (a place she had loved to rest her fingers). Somehow he had gotten away with it. Her own hair had been short, exposing her long neck and making her look, she had hoped, professional and no-nonsense. She'd never wanted to be soft and feminine, at least not until he'd taken her to bed.

Staring at him, she marveled at how young and vulnerable he looked. She'd never seen him sleeping, because he'd never stayed long enough. He'd always been gone by morning.

A faint twitch crossed his face and she glanced at his vitals, which were within normal limits for a fresh, post-op patient. She quickly drew his blood, taking care not to wake him. Continuing with her assessment, she saw that his IV bag was low and needed changing. Inspecting his IV site, she noted the area was slightly red, but the catheter was well inserted. She checked his chart for instructions, made a note about drawing the blood and the condition of the IV site, and recorded his vitals and urine output before checking on the drain at his knee. The line was clear and still draining excess fluids.

He had slept through it all – still and undemanding – but she knew that soon he would wake and she'd need to interact with him. Would he remember who she was? Should she tell him?

She cringed at the thought. How would that conversation go? 'You don't remember me, but we had sex several times and then I never heard from you again. Are you comfortable enough? Do you need another pillow? By the way, my name is Christine; I'll be your nurse.'

She turned from the bed with a suppressed groan. If there was a god in this universe, she desperately hoped it lacked a sense of humor and had the mercy to erase her from his memory.

McCoy wiped the trickles of sweat from his neck as he cautiously made his way across the narrow path that connected the medical camp to the scientists' site. Thick branches and heavy leaves overhung the path, shading the sun and stifling the breeze, making it oppressively hot. It was a manmade path, something the engineers had cut in less than an hour when the medical tents had gone up. Since then the path had been beaten down by dozens of Starfleet personnel making the trek from site to site. Kirk had insisted the medical camp be a safe distance from the fallen buildings and at the time, McCoy had resisted, not liking the wounded being transported through the forest for help. But now, with Kirk having fallen into a sink hole, he was grateful for the distance, hoping that whatever phenomenon had created the sink hole was isolated to the scientists' site. Still, he kept waiting for the ground to swallow him and found himself hastening his pace.

It was eerily silent. The planet had insects, but no mammal evolution. Still, he expected sound of some type, and yet the silence followed him. Only the sound of his footsteps rushing on the path accompanied him. Soon, he heard the sounds of the crew. Civilization.

He stepped out of the forest into a clearing with a deep breath of relief. As his eyes painfully adjusted to the sudden light, he struggled to focus on the images in front of him.

"Jesus," he whispered, coming to a stop.

He hadn't been to the damaged site. They'd set up the medical units even as patients were being rushed in and triaged, and he'd spent the next two days in surgery. How had he not seen?

The structure – or what was left of it – had sunk into the ground, leaving behind a mountain of rubble. It had been home to three hundred beings for more than two years, but now resembled an archeology dig. He pulled himself out of his reverie and moved toward Scott, who stood talking to a dark-haired woman whom he didn't recognize.

Scott noticed his approach and turned to him with a quizzical look. "Looking for customers?" he asked as McCoy closed the distance between them.

"I've got my hands full with the one I've got." He motioned to the rubble with a faintly anguished expression. "Any progress?"

Scott shook his head. "We have signs of life, but don't have a count. We had to cordon off the area around the site because of sink holes. That's impacting the rescue efforts."

McCoy scowled, observing the manual efforts to clear the debris. Crew crowded in narrow areas, passing pieces of rubble between themselves. It was a little like bailing out a ship with a tin cup. At this rate it would be weeks before they cleared enough to get to the scientists. "How the hell many sink holes are there?"

"Well … there's this one," he said pointing at the rubble. "Not to mention the one the Captain found."

"I thought this was a quake?" No one had indicated the structure had sunk.

"There were no shock waves," the woman said, chiming in uninvited. "At least not that I can remember. Everything just sort of … collapsed."

McCoy looked at her, surprised by the interruption. "And you are?"

"Char," she said with a friendly grin. "I'm part of the scientific team assigned on this outpost."

She stared directly at him. Her eyes were light silver and startlingly soft. Empathetic. But rather than unnerve him, her gaze soothed. She had an air of wisdom that didn't match her youth, although he suspected she wasn't as young as she looked. "No offense," he said easily, "but you don't look like a scientist."

"And you don't look like a doctor."

Touché'

Reluctantly, he turned back to Scott. "Time's a factor."

"On Ontari Five over eighteen beings were found under a collapsed structure almost three weeks after rescue efforts started," Char said quietly. "We know there's life signs. That means they're getting oxygen."

"Oxygen doesn't help when you're bleeding to death," he said flatly, barely glancing at her. "Any way of getting better vitals?"

Scott shook his head. "Not until we get some of the obstructions out of the way. Like I told the Captain, there's something in the minerals that interfering with the scanners."

McCoy wiped at the sweat dotting his forehead. "What about the _Bradbury_? How far out are they?"

"Not within communication range. I can send a subspace message." Scott narrowed his eyes. "Something wrong? Is Jim all right?"

"He's fine," he said simply. "And I want to keep him that way."

"Aye," Scott said in a knowing way.

With Jim Kirk even the simplest of things could go wrong quickly.

"If we don't hear from _Bradbury_ by morning, I'll contact _Enterprise_ and get an arrival estimate." He paused and seemed to hesitate. "If we get those scientists outta there will you have enough supplies to treat them?"

McCoy's eyebrows rose briefly. "It's a hell of a time to ask now, isn't it?"

Scott was unfazed. "I've gotta run another analysis. The Captain will be wanting a report and if anybody else falls into a sink hole, it'll be my arse."

Technically, Kirk was still in command. A bum leg didn't remove a commander from duty, much as McCoy would have loved it to do so.

McCoy nodded and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. "Is it always so damn hot here?"

Char smiled. "It's warmer than usual. Rain is delayed."

He looked at the crew excavating the rubble. There was nothing for him to do here. He wasn't sure why he had made the trek to the site or what he had hoped to accomplish. Maybe he was just restless or hoped to see the rescue of the first scientist, to know that they weren't wasting their efforts. Or maybe he just needed the reassurance of Scott that _Bradbury_ was on its way, that they weren't as alone as he felt.

Char stood watching him with an unreadable expression.

"Exactly what did you do here?" he asked her, unwilling to mask his irritation.

"Studied the physiological impacts of deep space duty on sentient beings."

Was she messing with him? Her features revealed nothing. He swallowed past the dryness in his throat. "Good luck with that," he said flatly, holding her gaze.

"Doctor!"

The sound of his name, shouted in alarm, alerted him. He turned to see a fallen crew member on the rubble. He raced across the opening and jumped onto the small mountain, balancing on the sharp pieces of composite that had once been the structure. The crewman – Ensign Rail – was Orion, young and thin. He'd been on Enterprise since they'd left Earth. Now he lay on the jagged rubble, unconscious. And slightly flushed. McCoy pulled his mobile scanner from its holster at the back of his hip. Not as detailed as his regular scanner, but it provided basic medical data including vital signs. The information was enough for him to see that Ensign Rail had a fever and was dehydrated.

Rail opened his eyes as McCoy continued his exam. "Hello."

"Welcome," Rail said in a weak voice. "What happened?"

"You passed out." McCoy put a hand on Rail's head, as much to reassure him as keep him in place. "You're dehydrated."

"I'm good."

McCoy raised his eyebrows. "I beg to differ, Ensign." He looked at the Lieutenant who was kneeling beside Rail. "Get back to the medical camp and get a stretcher."

"I can walk," Rail said faintly, his eyes drooping.

"Did I ask you?" He pulled out his communicator. "McCoy to Tani."

"Tani here, Dr. McCoy."

"Lt. Ailes is on his way to you. Follow him back with the stretcher and a medical kit." He paused and looked around at the site. The crew was already sweaty and exhausted and it wasn't even noon. "Bring a round of PR-10 supplements."

"Yes, Doctor."

He tucked his communicator away and wiped at the sweat that had collected on the back of his neck. This was not how he wanted to start his day. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Char watching him from her spot on the ground. The heat appeared to have no effect on her. In fact, it looked as if she wasn't perspiring.

It was two hours later when he walked into the medical tent. Rail had already been transferred and was resting comfortably with an IV in his arm. Chapel was at the desk, busily making notes. She raised her gaze as he approached.

"I was getting worried," she said, leaning back on the chair.

"I got delayed." He looked down the ward to where Kirk lay. His friend appeared to be resting, but he saw the increase in respirations that told a different story. He reached out for a chart and Chapel quickly supplied him with one. Ensign Rail had been diagnosed with dehydration and was getting IV fluids and rest. Orions had a notoriously low tolerance for heat. His blood results were negative and he would be released in a few hours with strict instructions to continue hydration and rest. He would not return to duty until tomorrow. Damn fool.

He put his signature on the chart and handed it back to Chapel.

"You look whipped," she said, taking Rail's chart and handing him another. "You have to be careful with the heat."

"Tell that to Rails." His shirt was sticky with sweat and he wanted food and a shower in the worst way. He looked down at the chart. It was Kirk's. "How's he doing?" he asked reviewing the chart.

"A little uncooperative, but relatively quiet."

He raised his eyes sharply, looking quizzically at her.

"He refused cool compresses and he's not eating."

That didn't surprise him. Jim hated being taken care of, and trying to get him to eat when he was under care or engrossed in a problem was next to impossible. He returned his gaze to the chart. Kirk's blood pressure and temperature were up slightly, but that could be because of pain and the lack of environmental control in the tent. Even with the fan circulating the air, it was hot and bound to get hotter. "No blood results yet?"

"Equipment issues. They say they'll have it within the hour."

Terrific. He'd never missed his sickbay more. He read the note regarding irritation around the IV site. "Go to the mess and get me some soup. Something mild."

Silence.

He looked up from the chart. Chapel stood frozen, clearly struggling with her emotions, which seemed to vacillate between anger and compliance. "Is that a problem, nurse?"

"No, Doctor," she said quickly, squaring her shoulders and donning an expression that bordered on condescending. "Would you like a sandwich, as well?"

"No," he said, turning and walking toward Kirk. "Just the soup."

Kirk's eyes were closed, but opened as he approached. He could see from the pinched features that his friend was in pain. Kirk's bare chest was exposed and gleaming with perspiration. Grabbing a nearby chair, he set it down next to the bed.

"You're sunburned," Kirk said, before he had a chance to speak.

"I'm fair-skinned." He saw that despite the flushed cheeks, Kirk looked slightly pale and fatigued.

Kirk huffed and tried to sit up, but cringed suddenly in pain and with a growl abandoned the attempt, settling back onto the pillow.

"Let that be a lesson to you." He moved to Kirk's knee to check the drain. "How are you feeling?"

"You've been at the site. Is Scotty making progress?"

"They found life signs." Despite the thick bandages, the knee looked more swollen and the drain was still active, which meant a lot of fluid in the knee. "You're avoiding my question."

"I'm not avoiding it. I'm purposely ignoring it." There was an edge to Kirk's voice. "Did something happen?"

"No one fell into a sink hole, if that's what you mean." He touched Kirk's foot, which was warm and had a strong pulse. "Can you feel this?"

" _Yes_. What about the life signs?"

"Move your toes."

"Bones," Kirk said in a warning voice.

He turned his head to scowl at Kirk. "Can you move your toes or not?"

"Yes, damn it." Kirk's toes wiggled.

Satisfied, he straightened and moved toward Kirk's torso, noting the increased respirations. "You know you make this ten times more difficult than it needs to be." He hooked a foot around the stool leg and sat down. "Why are you giving the nurses hell?"

"They're annoying." His voice was heavy with frustration. "What about the life signs?"

"They picked up signs of life. Nothing definite. No numbers, just a general location. That's all I know." He could see Kirk's increased pulse without the benefit of the monitor. The carotid artery jumped beneath the pale skin. He picked up Kirk's hand to inspect the redness around the catheter. "Is this bothering you?"

"Yes. It's a needle stuck in my hand." He pulled away from McCoy. "How long can they survive down there?"

Chapel approached carrying a tray with a bowl of soup.

"Depends on the conditions." He took the tray from her and asked for some cool packs, then set down the soup in front of Kirk, careful to avoid jostling his knee.

Kirk looked at the soup and pushed it away. "I'm not hungry, Bones."

McCoy pushed it back and picked up the spoon, dipping it in the bowl.

Kirk scowled at the proffered spoon. "I'm not a damn invalid."

"Fine," he said easily and offered the spoon to Kirk.

There was a moment when Kirk didn't move, but stared McCoy down, his jaw flexing with suppressed emotions. The fan spun and the air circulated its stale, hot breath.

"I've got all day," McCoy said, holding Kirk's stare.

With a sigh of resignation, Kirk took the spoon and swallowed his first mouthful of soup, though he didn't look pleased. McCoy studied the monitor with concern. Kirk was in obvious pain and the heat probably wasn't helping him find a comfortable position.

"Is Scotty keeping the crew away from the outside of the site?" Kirk asked. His words were a little breathless and he tried to shift again, his expression slipping into a grimace.

"Yes." He looked at Kirk. "Eat. You need nourishment. I can't give you everything you need in an IV."

"I'd take a shot of bourbon."

"And I'd give it to you if I had any."

Kirk took another two spoonsful of soup. "This is tasteless."

"Emergency provisions. Made to keep people from starving."

"Says who?" he asked roughly and pushed the bowl away, trying to shift again and failing.

"I can't give you anything for another hour and a half," McCoy said sympathetically.

"Terrific." He closed his eyes.

Chapel arrived with the cool compresses. They were large and flat and relatively light, making them less obtrusive than ice packs. These were chemical and maintained their temperature for almost twelve hours. McCoy activated them and carefully placed two on Kirk's knee, eliciting a faint gasp from him as he rose partially from his place on the pillow.

"Easy," McCoy said softly. "The coolness will help with the pain. Also your knee's a little more swollen."

"Then what?" Kirk asked tightly, eyeing the bandaged leg with trepidation.

"Then yesterday. Lie back." He put a hand on Kirk's chest to enforce his instructions.

Kirk pressed against the pillow, his jaw tight. For a moment, he closed his eyes as his hand moved up to lie flat against his ribs. There was nothing relaxed about Kirk's body. He was tense with pain and exhausting himself. McCoy looked at Chapel, who had stood silently by during the exchange.

"Get me another IV port," he ordered her. He'd have to relocate the IV site and hope that the redness was only irritation and not a sign of something more serious.

She nodded and left while McCoy stopped the flow of the IV and disconnected it from the catheter.

"You're setting me free?" Kirk asked quietly. His eyes opened and he was watching McCoy.

"Not quite." He carefully removed the catheter, freeing it from beneath Jim's skin. "I'm just going to relocate it. Your hand's getting a little irritated."

"Maybe I'm allergic," Kirk said moodily, his eyes bright with fever.

"Don't even joke." He put a small bandage on the weeping wound.

"How long is it going to take you to fix this knee?" Kirk asked.

Jim always spoke about his health the same way he spoke to Scotty about a ship repair, but with far less regard.

"A few hours. You'll be on your feet twelve hours after surgery with a proper brace, but, Jim, you won't be well enough to go crawling around the collapsed site."

Kirk didn't look at him and he knew this would be a fight for another day. With a sigh, he reached for the cloth and basin of water next to Kirk's bed. The water was tepid, but he hoped that just the process of bathing Kirk would offer some relief. He wrung the cloth and took Kirk's arm, wiping the damp cloth across his skin.

"Are you kidding me?" Kirk asked flatly.

"You want me to call a nurse to finish this?"

A soft growl was his response. "What's the ETA of the _Bradbury_?"

"How should I know? Scotty says he'll try to contact them in the morning if he hasn't heard from them." He moved the cloth to Jim's neck and chest, avoiding the tiny monitoring patches while wiping away the layer of sweat. When he finished, Chapel was back with a clean IV port. As he took it, she stepped back and stood uncomfortably by the bed, watching. That's when he noticed that Kirk was watching her with an equally guarded expression.


	4. Chapter 4

_The sun beat down on him, but he didn't feel the heat. It was more like a gentle kiss on his skin, something a mother would bestow on her child. The mountains lined the horizon in front of him, but the area where he stood was open, as if the landscape had been designed just for him. He looked down at his body and saw that he was naked, bare feet planted on the soft, warm ground. He wiggled his toes, digging them into the soil which seemed to move with his tender nudging. From somewhere a chorus of high-pitched humming sounded, a few notes at first, then growing into an orchestra that performed around him. A balmy breeze caressed his skin, sending a shiver of pleasure through him. He smiled._

 _He was home._

 _The ground shifted. He thought of his grandfather's farm and those first few years when he felt loved and secure. Closing his eyes, he breathed in, letting the damp air fill his lungs, losing himself to the rhythmic sound of the cicadas. For an instant, he was one with everything in a way he'd never been before. His body disappeared, but he felt no separation, only oneness._

 _Then, without warning, he was back in his body and falling as the ground opened, swallowing him, crushing him … suffocating the life from his body._

He jerked, his arms lashing out, muscles galvanizing. Agony ripped through his knee, shooting fire through his thigh. He cried out. Reaching for his knee, he sat up in bed before his vision had a chance to clear, lungs seizing as if they had forgotten how to breathe. His fingers clutched at the thick bandage around his leg in a desperate attempt to ease the stabbing that was ripping his knee apart. A buzzing sound filled his ears, loud and insistent.

Hands were on his shoulders, strong and certain, pulling him backward. He resisted, his fingers digging into the bandages, trying to stop the anguish beneath. The pain spread like molten iron, consuming him, and against all logic, he wanted to crush that pain, pound it into submission with his fists.

"Jim, it's all right!" Fingers encircled his wrist, forcing his hand away from his knee. "Let go!"

Alarms sounded. White hot pain shot into his groin, making him want to kick out. But his leg was uncooperative and remained paralyzed with pain.

"Jim!"

Other hands were on him now, pulling, pushing. His ears hummed with a high-pitched ringing. His strength faded with a suddenness that surprised him. He fell back, drenched in sweat, his knee on fire. A sharp sting at the side of his neck dulled his hearing and the room greyed to shades of watery smoke, then narrowed to a pinpoint of light. His body felt heavy, but the pain in his knee throbbed dully, refusing to be ignored even with the rush of painkillers coursing through him. Voices spoke around him, but the buzzing in his ears seemed to drown them out. His muscles felt rubbery and useless. Then all at once his vision cleared and the room came into focus. His head was at an odd angle on the pillow, turning the room on its side. It took an effort, but he rolled his head and saw McCoy bent over his knee with the blond nurse beside him. McCoy's lips were moving, but his words were distorted and muffled.

Fuck.

Lying still, with his head nestled on the pillow, his leg felt heavy and paralyzed. His heart thudded against his chest in an exaggerated beat. He was thirsty and his head hurt and his body didn't feel as if it were his, and yet he felt too much – trapped in a damaged vessel and left to flounder.

McCoy turned to pin him with a glare and he wondered what he'd done to earn the doctor's ire. Looking away, McCoy said something to the nurse who nodded and disappeared. A moment later, he was in front of Kirk, tight lipped and obviously pissed. He was speaking to Kirk, but it all seemed far away. Bit by bit, the words became clear.

"…and the damn knee cap. I told y…."

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his heart slow to a gentle beat. He really was thirsty.

"…moving …a uses more dam…"

Had he moved? No, he'd fallen. He opened his eyes, blinking to focus. McCoy's hazel eyes were intensely focused on him in an all-too-familiar expression. He remembered waking up on Earth after stepping into the warp core and seeing that expression.

"Are you list…"

Flicking his gaze to the right, he saw the ceiling fan against the white backdrop. He wasn't on the ship. The whining in his ears stopped suddenly.

"No," McCoy said gently. "You're not on the ship."

His gaze drifted back to his friend, who looked less irritated. The stillness around him seemed suffocating, as if someone had dropped a glass dome around them. "What time is it?"

McCoy took a moment to answer, scrutinizing Kirk. "Just after mid-night. I gave you something for the pain."

"Mm." He could feel it. It took an effort to move his head and readjust it to a more comfortable position on the pillow. "I fell."

"You were having a dream." McCoy pulled the light sheet up to cover his chest then checked the IV that had been relocated to the inside of his elbow. "Lucky you didn't rip this out." His gaze settled on Kirk and his eyes seemed to look deep into him. "How are you feeling?"

"Unlucky." His tongue was thick and too big for his mouth. Around him the world slowed and diffused into a foggy scape.

"For once I believe you. Get some rest." McCoy put his hand on the top of Kirk's head and stared down at him. "I'm going to do the same."

I don't want to sleep, he wanted to say. But his mouth wouldn't work and his eyes were closing. He drifted into darkness, pulled down by the drugs. It wasn't tranquil. There were moments when everything was dark and peaceful, and moments where he felt as if he were skipping along layers of consciousness, dipping, at time, into hyper-sensitivity before falling back into more muted thoughts. In the background was the cicada sound he'd become familiar with, the buzzing that sounded outside the tent and kept him company even into his dreams until he could no longer determine what was real and what was not. Finally, as dawn began to light the tent, he settled into a pleasant state of awareness where his thoughts cycled images and memories he'd tried to erase.

 _"_ _You're going to be on your own out there," Pike said, staring at him with an unblinking gaze. He was in the color of the day, confined to his wheelchair behind his desk but looking no less the commanding officer he'd always been. "No one to save your ass."_

 _Kirk's eyebrows twitched. "You're worried about my ass?"_

 _Pike frowned, his expression darkening. "Think this is funny?"_

 _He had. But now …._

 _"_ _It's not your ass I'm worried about. You're captain now. It's the 435 other beings under your command I'm worried about."_

 _He'd been called into Pike's office – again – for a debriefing of his latest mission, which was little more than a shuttle service for an ambassador. He had been less than thrilled with the mission, but then he'd run into Mudd and things had gotten more interesting._

 _"_ _We completed our mission," Kirk said confidently. "And I haven't lost one crew member since taking command."_

Of course he couldn't make that claim anymore. He'd lost dozens of crew in Marcus's attack. All he could really say was that he'd beaten the unbeatable, but even that didn't make him feel better. Why had he beaten the odds and Pike hadn't?

 _"_ _It's gonna be all right, son."_

He closed his eyes. He'd worked hard to bury those memories because when they rose from the dark place he'd put them he always felt despondent. Then he'd go for a run or a punishing workout until the memories were once again beaten into submission and he could breathe again. But now he couldn't move and the memories had broken free. He felt sorrow settle heavily on him and regretted again that he hadn't been able to go to Pike's funeral. And when he'd left for this five-year mission he'd worked so hard to get, Pike had been absent. It was Komack who had sent him off with a hand shake.

He opened his eyes. Darkness made it worse. He looked around his tiny prison. The tent lacked windows, but the sun lit the interior through the tent walls, casting shadows from the fan blades and making the emptiness inside come alive, like the planet outside humming and singing. He was thinking of that aliveness when the blond nurse approached his bed, shattering his self-made peace.

"Good morning," she greeted without a smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Enough," he said, watching her. Her expression was professional, cool, but she'd asked the question without warmth or compassion, as if she were executing a duty.

"How is your pain?"

"How is it supposed to be?"

She didn't respond, but made a note in his chart then set about recording his vitals from the small monitor, unusually engrossed in the activity he'd seen Bones complete with a glance. Setting down the chart, she checked his IV before moving to inspect the tiny monitoring patches that were stuck to his chest.

"These are looking red," she said, moving her fingers across the attached devices. "Are they bothering you?"

He looked down at the six small circular patches. He hadn't really noticed them, but saw now that the skin around them was red. "I hadn't noticed. Do you take any time off? You seem to work all the shifts around here."

"You really haven't been here long enough to make that assessment." She straightened away from him and moved to the IV regulator and pressed the buttons.

So that was it. She didn't like him. He smiled. "I excel at observations."

"Do you?" She remained deadpan, standing with her arms at her side.

"Among other things."

He waited for a sign, a crack in the mask, some response to his charm. If nothing else, it was a distraction from his thoughts and the throbbing in his knee which had begun, again, in earnest.

"Dr. McCoy isn't in yet. Is there anything I can get you before I go?"

Ouch. She was tough. He looked at her, wondering where her anger came from. "What's your name?"

Something came over her face – a shadow of anger, disappointment, hurt. "Chapel," she said abruptly. "Christine Chapel."

He nodded. "I do something to piss you off, Christine Chapel?"

Her eyes were flat blue and her mask never wavered. "What could you possibly have done, Captain? We just met." She turned then and left.

He watched her walk away, watched her bottom sway—

Chapel. Christine Chapel.

 _Her chin rested on his naked abdomen, soft blue eyes peering up at him beneath a light fan of lashes. They lay on the narrow bed. She'd managed to stretch out and still keep her body on the academy issued bed. It was dark in the dorm room, but he could clearly see the milky white of her naked body and the round mound of her smooth ass slightly perched up in the air, teasing him._

He closed his eyes. Shit.

"What do you mean, they aren't coming?" McCoy held a cup of synthetic coffee in one hand as he stared at Scotty who'd joined him near the make-shift coffee area at the far end of the supply tent.

"I didn't say they weren't comin', Doctor," he replied in an exasperated tone. His brogue got thicker when he was tired or under stress and McCoy suspected he was both. "I said I dinna get any communication."

"What the hell is the difference?"

"One is a cancel; the other is a delay." He reached for a cup. "We haven't heard of them being re-routed."

Damn it. Jim's knee was barely holding together and after last night's episode there was more swelling. "How long of a delay?"

Scotty's shoulders drooped and he took on the look of a man who'd over-explained himself. The cup dangled from his fingertips, momentarily forgotten. "That would require communication, Doctor, and we have none. We'll have to wait and see if they respond."

Wait and see? McCoy looked out over the camp. It was early morning and crew were beginning to move around, some in from the collapse site, coming in for food and relief, maybe a shower before they headed back out. The duty rotation was tight, putting a strain on the crew. He was pleased to see the crew, despite appearing tired, were also looking strong and focused. He made a mental note to have Dr. Lyke do some preliminary health checks on the crew. Keeping them healthy meant keeping tabs on them. This damn heat had snuck up on them once. He didn't want an epidemic of heatstroke.

"Is there any food to go with this?"

McCoy turned to study the engineer, seeing the rumpled uniform and dark circles under his eyes. "The replicators are on the other side. You get any sleep last night?"

"Barely. But we may have made some progress." He filled his cup with the hot brew. It didn't even smell like coffee. "I think we found a path in."

"To the scientists? That's great news." He stared at the medical tent on the other side of the camp. He needed to do a thorough check and make certain they were prepared. He'd inventoried the supplies, but needed to keep his staff alert and prepared. There was always a danger, during down times, when staff became too relaxed, too accustomed to the quiet, that they would be unprepared when they were most needed.

"How's the Captain?"

The question pulled him back to the present. "Rough night." He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "I'm just going to check on him now."

Scotty nodded. "Not a good time for _Bradbury_ to be late." He stepped in line with McCoy. "Captain doesn't like to be side-lined."

"He doesn't have much choice," McCoy said, making his way across the camp.

"Ach," Scotty said, spitting out his coffee. "You sure this is coffee?"

"Blame it on the dispenser." The sun was just above the horizon and heating the humid air, burning off the coolness of the night air.

"You know if we capped off the filter and tightened the return, turned up the heat, we'd have a nice still."

McCoy shifted his eyes to his companion. "I don't want to be here long enough to make moonshine."

"Moonshine?" The engineer sounded insulted. "My grand-pappy would turn over in his grave if he thought a good Scotsman like me was making moonshine."

They entered the medical tent. Watson and Emery, the two station geologists, were wide awake. Their fevers were gone as mysteriously as they had appeared and they were getting restless to leave. Their eyes sought him out immediately, like bored restive children. He nodded a greeting to them, but moved toward the center of the tent.

"Not much air in here," Scotty said, looking around.

"Blame that on the engineers." He approached Kirk's bed, seeing his friend fidgeting restlessly.

"Well that's a little insulting."

Kirk turned toward the two. "Someone insult your engines, Scotty?"

McCoy noted the rough edge to Kirk's voice, the pinched look around his eyes.

"How are you doing, sir?" Scotty asked.

Kirk looked slightly pale and tired, lying against a stack of pillows, a sheet pulled up to just below his sternum. "Good enough. Have good news?"

Scotty sat in the chair by the bed, setting his cup on the small side table. "We may have found something." He produced a thin PADD from behind him and began tapping on the screen. "I think the scientists may be in a cavern." He showed Kirk the screen. "Right here. We're picking up an echo."

Kirk studied the screen, keeping his head against the pillow. "The structure sank?"

"That's what I think. We're going to send in some probes."

Kirk looked away for a moment, then turned back. Small wrinkles tightened around his eyes, showing his discomfort. "You're going to drill?"

"We gotta get the probe in some way. It'll be narrow. We'll take precautions, sir. It shouldn't disrupt the surface."

Kirk shifted, wincing. "How long?"

"A few hours. We need to set up." He pulled the PADD away.

Kirk nodded. "Okay."

Scotty stood.

"Be careful. We don't want to be pulling you out of a hole."

"Aye." With a nod, he left, leaving McCoy standing at the foot of the bed, studying Kirk and sipping his coffee.

"Good morning," he said, moving to Kirk's side.

"Why does everyone have coffee but me?"

"You don't need coffee." McCoy set his cup down. "Anyway, it barely qualifies. Never thought I'd miss _Enterprise_ coffee."

"I'll remind you that you said that the next time we're six months out."

McCoy snorted. "How did you sleep?"

"Terrific." He stared closely at McCoy. "You have something to tell me."

McCoy's eyes narrowed and he glared at the small monitor, and then reached out to put a hand to Kirk's forehead. "You've got a fever."

"It's a hundred degrees in here."

"It's a hundred degrees outside, too." McCoy stood back and moved to inspect Kirk's knee. "How's your pain?"

"Why is everyone asking me that?"

McCoy gently put his hand on Kirk's knee, still wrapped in thick bandages. Kirk instantly tensed. The knee was considerably swollen, but the drain looked clean. Damn it. He'd have to do a full exam and reposition the drain, He'd hoped to keep the knee contained until he could operate, but the _Bradbury's_ delay now made that impossible.

"I don't like the look you have," Kirk said.

McCoy shifted his gaze to meet Kirk's blue eyes. "I'll try not to take that personally." He straightened and moved to occupy the chair Scotty had just vacated. "Your knee's pretty swollen. I have to reposition the drain."

Kirk looked tired, but held McCoy's gaze. " _Bradbury_ is late," he deduced.

McCoy nodded. "I didn't want to disturb your knee until I did surgery, but it can't wait. _Bradbury's_ not responding to our communications."

Kirk released a breath and looked toward the ceiling. "They're coming through the grid. They might be off course. It's like flying through a damn tornado."

"How would you know?" He frowned. "There haven't been tornados in over hundred years."

"My point is it could be longer than a day."

"Great. We're stuck on a planet with sink holes. Hope we're all here when they arrive."

Kirk turned toward him. "Don't be so dramatic. We still have a mission to complete. Rescuing the scientists is our primary responsibility."

"And keeping you healthy is mine. I want you to eat something. I'm going to run some blood tests and then I'm going to have to reposition the drain, try to get some of the swelling down."

Kirk absently scratched at the tiny monitor that was attached near his ribs. "You look worried."

"I hate delays. Why are you scratching at these?" He inspected the monitor, scowling. "These bothering you?"

"Everything is bothering me," Kirk said a little heavily and shifted. He was hot and sticky. "Can't you fix this knee?"

"No, Jim. I can't. I told you. I don't have the right implants. You just have to sit tight." He stood.

"What else am I going to do?"


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't a buzzing. It was a more a varied rhythm droning, one that had its own cadence. He knew this because he'd spent the last three hours listening to it, interrupted only by the occasional nurse or Bones coming by to check on him. He was alone in the medical tent. The two outpost scientists had been released, leaving only Bones who was at the desk, focused on the terminal screen on what looked like death certificates. He'd almost forgotten about the two hundred dead scientists laid out in a nearby tent. They'd have been sealed in transportation carriers each identified with names and given tracking I.D.s that coordinated with the death certificates. Adjudicates would process all this at the Starbase and would begin the detailed task of getting the scientists back to their home planets.

At least they have some place to go, he thought darkly. The drain in his knee had been removed, then reinserted, and his leg bandaged again. The procedure had been painful and exhausting, and the only thing he was grateful for was that Chapel hadn't been in the room to hear him cry out as the tube had been tugged from his shattered knee. He didn't know where Chapel was now. Hadn't seen her since this morning. Despite the extra dose of painkiller, which Bones administered _after_ the procedure, his knee still throbbed. He'd vomited the little bit of food Bones had forced him to eat, and to make matters worse, he had a headache due to the incessant droning he couldn't seem to get away from.

"You have a fever," McCoy had announced hours ago, making a declaration before returning to his desk. As if that made everything all right.

He pushed down the sheet that covered his torso, exposing his chest to the warm circulation of air that did nothing to offer relief. He was hot and aching and miserable and he wanted out – out of the bed, out of the tent. Out. He closed his eyes, trying to lull himself into a light sleep. His skin was sticky with sweat and the ache in his back seemed more pronounced, making it difficult to find a comfortable position, but with nothing to stimulate his mind and the painkiller flowing through his blood, he began to drift.

 _He was comforted by the sound the wheat made as the wind passed through it. Inhaling deeply, he threw himself down on the small clearing just outside the field. The grass was dry, but thick and soft, cushioning his sprawling body. Above him, the sky was pale blue and flawless. From his position, Earth no longer existed. Enveloped by the span of sky, he imagined he was someplace else, far away from Frank and the empty farmhouse._

With a low growl, the ground beneath his bed began to tremble. Instantly, his eyes snapped open as he felt the shaking running deep underground. His muscles tensed and he had an instant vision of falling into the sink hole. Instinct drove him up from the bed. Struggling to rise, he reached a protective hand to his tender knee as if to steady it while using the other hand for leverage. A pang, low in his back, struck swiftly, radiating outward as he shifted, searching the tent, tensely alert. As quickly as the trembling started it stopped, leaving him stranded in his attempt to rise and breathless.

McCoy was at the desk, looking intensely at him. A scowl of concern deepened on his face as he slowly rose.

Kirk looked away. If the tent sank into the ground Bones would never let him hear the end of it. _I should have moved these tents._

"You all right, Jim?" McCoy stood by his bed, looking concerned.

Were they in danger?

The droning had stopped and he'd barely noticed, sharply focused on the ground beneath the tent, trying to feel the rhythm of the planet, as if maybe it wasn't finished.

"Jim?"

"Yeah," he said at length, trying to refocus his attention on the conversation. He looked at McCoy, who appeared startlingly calm. "Probably just a tremor."

"Tremor?"

He hesitated. "You didn't feel that?"

McCoy studied him closely. "Feel what?"

He shifted his gaze to the tent, searching for signs of the disruption and finding none. It hadn't been much. Was it possible he had felt it and Bones hadn't?

"Jim?"

He released a breath and pushed a hand through his sticky hair. "Nothing. Must have been dreaming."

"Why don't you try to relax?"

The droning began again and he almost groaned. McCoy put a cool hand on the nape of his neck and eased him back onto the pillows. "Lie back down. I don't want you to jostle your knee."

"Hot in here."

"Do you want an ice pack?"

"No." His head pounded and his back hurt. The bandaging on his leg made it feel heavy and hot … buried.

McCoy moved to inspect the drain. "It's looking good. Swelling's down."

The ceiling fan whirled, cutting into the thick, still air. The walls were so white. Sterile. He remembered the blue mountains in the distance, the tall grass dancing in the breeze. Behind his eyes, a sharp pounding began. He put a hand to his head. Fucking Cicadas.

"Hey." McCoy's face was suddenly close, looming above him. "You got a headache?"

He closed his eyes. For an uninhabited planet it was very noisy.

"Nurse." McCoy's sharp voice cut through his headache. A cool hand rested on the side of his face.

It's okay. I'm just tired.

The hand disappeared with the sound of footsteps. "Hang 200ccs of Dentnal IV at 4 milliliters a minute and get a blood draw. Run a full culture."

"Yes, Doctor."

He recognized the sound of Chapel's voice. Terrific.

"Push an amp of Tivox."

"Yes, Doctor."

"Also, replace these monitors. I'll be in the mortuary with Lyke. Comm me if his fever gets any higher."

I don't have a fever, he insisted silently. Bones was just being overprotective … and it was fucking hot in here. He kept his eyes closed as Chapel adjusted his medications, tugging annoyingly on the IV line. It was the sharp pinch at the inside of his elbow that forced him to open his eyes. She was bent over his arm, focused on her task. The top of her head was a mesmerizing vision of shining, golden strands. "Corn silk," he muttered. He used to pull the tops of the corn and make a pile of the spun silk, then run through it.

She raised her head. Time spun, and he saw her as he had years ago with her chin resting on his ribs. He hadn't realized how blue her eyes were, how soft her features.

"What?"

I remember, he wanted to say. I remember the fragrance and feel of your skin and the way your eyes glimmered with pleasure when I touched you. But the buzzing increased, making him dizzy and disoriented. His vision blurred.

"Hold still," she said.

He hadn't moved, and he remained still as she drew his blood. It filled the narrow vial quickly. The tiny instrument drank greedily from him. He listened to his heartbeat, barely perceptible above the droning surrounding him. As Chapel finished and straightened, she stared down at him with a sympathetic expression. "Do you want some water?"

"Water?" Yes, he wanted a shower – cool rain rushing over his skin.

"Something to drink?"

Her image wavered, moving like the ripe wheat under the urging of a breeze.

She frowned. "Jim?"

His eyes closed. "Tired."

For a moment, she didn't move and he imagined her staring at him, uncertainly. After a long moment, she moved to comply with McCoy's instructions, fussing over him as she injected him with more medications. She finished what she needed to do while he kept his eyes closed, doing his best to ignore the attention … and the pounding in his head. Whatever Bones had ordered, the medication injected into his IV was a hot and angry invasion in his vein. His stomach turned as a wave of nausea rushed through him.

Her hands ghosted over his skin, pulling the small monitors free. It all seemed far away. He fell asleep to the soft rumble beneath him.

The mortuary was a wide, long tent with minimal furnishings. Three rows of bodies lined the area, stacked on narrow cots two deep. The scientists were sealed in protective cases, making the entire tent look like a warehouse of unwanted inventory. McCoy stood at the entrance, taking in the scene and the grim task ahead of him. As a physician, his focus had always been on healing the living. As Chief Medical Officer of the _Enterprise_ , his responsibilities were divided between healing, preventative care and role of coroner. With the scientists still trapped, he had no one to heal and could no longer avoid the mortuary tent.

"Morning." Lyke looked up from the body he was processing near the middle of the tent.

"It's 14:00," he said, moving toward Lyke.

Lyke stretched his back while keeping his hands on the body laid out before him. "Time flies …."

McCoy looked around. "How many more?"

"Too many."

McCoy had gotten the certificates and had spent hours processing them. Timeliness in the processing was critical. Family members needed to be notified and Starfleet wouldn't do that until the deceased had been properly processed, which meant being properly identified. "I'll suit up."

Hours later, McCoy's own back was hurting. They'd processed another dozen scientists, injecting them with a preservative to keep the bodies from decomposing. Once sealed in the protective cases, the bodies would remain well preserved for transportation.

"Any word on the _Bradbury_?" Lyke asked, breaking the silence.

"They've been delayed."

Lyke snorted, sealing the body he'd been working on. "You gotta love the military. I wouldn't hold your breath on the _Bradbury_ showing up soon. You know we've been last on the list before?"

McCoy spared a quick glance from the documentation he was finishing. "That's what you get for agreeing to an assignment on the outer frontier."

"Who said I volunteered?" Lyke moved to another table. "If I'd wanted surgical experience, I wouldn't have requested a station this far out. Any Starbase gets more action than this place. Well … current situation notwithstanding." He cataloged the ID on the sealed case. "The most we've gotten here was the occasional twisted ankle and an outbreak of fevers."

McCoy paused in his examination and focused on Lyke. "What outbreak of fevers?"

"The scientists occasionally ran fevers. We were never sure of the cause. Not bacterial or viral in nature. They'd last a few days and go away."

Like Watson and Emery.

"Jesus, it's hot in here," Lyke said. "How's Captain Kirk doing?"

"Holding his own." He injected the body with the preserving substance.

"What's he like? I mean, I know of his reputation and everything, but is he as—"

"There you are," a soft, feminine voice suddenly filled the tent.

Char walked in, unapologetic and annoyingly refreshed. "It's hot in here."

"Can we help you, Doctor?" McCoy asked absently, focusing on his task.

She stopped right in front of him. She smelled of a delicate blend of Frankincense and Lavender, just subtle enough to mask the smell of the chemicals he'd been inhaling the past few hours. "I've been at the site for days. Thought a change of scenery would be nice."

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. "So you picked the morgue? That's dark even for a Betazoid."

"I didn't think you'd noticed," she said with an impish smile. She had a way of looking at a person that stripped them down to nothing. It wasn't hard, but it was revealing, as if she knew every secret anyone tried to hide.

He returned to his task without comment.

"Rain is coming. I hope the _Bradbury_ will be here before it arrives," she said. "When it comes, it's merciless."

"How do you know it's going to rain?" Lyke asked. "All our meteorological equipment was destroyed."

"Feels like rain."

McCoy finished with the injection and began to seal the case. "Is there some purpose to your visit, Doctor?"

"You really should call me Char. With all these doctors, we'll never know who is who if you insist on formalities." She smiled pleasantly, but slowly sobered. "Many humans find processing the deceased a depressing task. There are more dead than wounded. That has to be difficult for someone who has dedicated their life to healing."

She was fishing and he didn't like it. Betazoids could sense other being's emotions. That made them very good at psychology. A few Betazoids had been recruited in the intelligence arena as strategists and interrogation specialists. He had never worked with one. They mostly kept to their home planet and rarely travelled. He wondered why this one had gone rogue.

"Reminds me of medical school," Lyke said.

A sudden commotion at the door drew their attention.

"Doc! They found one." A young ensign rushed through the opening. "They found a survivor. You have to come quick."

A commotion woke him. Jim struggled to rise from the depths of sleep, his body and thoughts sluggish. Too much medication coursing through his veins. A dormant instinct urged him to consciousness, a captain's natural drive to join the action, to command. Someone was in trouble.

"Get him on the table." McCoy's voice cut through the air.

Jim forced his eyes open, grappling with exhaustion to hear and make sense of the voices that were heightened with emotion.

"Is he alive?"

Jim turned his head to see a crowd of medical personnel gathered around one of the examination tables at the end of the tent. He had trouble focusing. His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking to his palate. He tried swallowing with little success and put all his effort into concentrating on the scene unfolding. Pushing up on his elbows for a better angle, he strained his head forward –

A sudden wail exploded in his head, forcing him back into the soft pillows. It was as if an energy beam was drilling into his head. Gritting his teeth, he pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to contain the excruciating pain. The motion sent the tangle of IVs dancing. Lights flashed around him, jolting his senses painfully, painting his world in a dazzling display of white lights.

What the fuck?

Suddenly, his eyes were open and staring directly at Scotty, who stood at the foot of his bed.

"We found one," Scotty said, his face covered in sweat and dirt.

His ears felt plugged, but the wail had ceased, leaving him dizzy.

"Found one?"

"One of the scientists. Doc's got him now."

Only one? There were more. Thousands. Millions.

"He's alive," Scotty added with a wry grin. "Don't ask me how, but he's alive. I was right about that cavern."

Scotty began spouting a long explanation about the geology and structure of the sinkhole that had resulted in the cavern, but he was only partially listening. His focus had turned to the end of the tent. He shifted on the bed, the motion tugging at his knee painfully. Reaching a hand to his knee for comfort, his fingers gripped the edge of the thick bandage.

"Why?"

Scotty stopped talking abruptly. "Sir?"

It was difficult to concentrate. "Why did they leave him?"

Scotty stood silent for a moment, frowning, then stepped closer to the bed. "He was in the cavern," he said slowly. "I don't think anybody left him."

No, he was left. They were all left.

"Are you all right, sir?"

A trickle of sweat rolled down his neck. He felt the blood drain from his face. Looking past Scotty to where the scientist was now lying, he saw medical personnel buzzing around him like a hive of bees all stirred up.

"There's probably more," Scotty said.

Thousands. Like bees coming out of nowhere, covering the planet. Buzzing.

"This is a good sign. I think we can—" Scotty's hand suddenly latched on to his bicep. "Whoa. Hold on there, sir."

He was eased down to the pillows, the room spinning.

"It's all right. I've got you."

Suddenly weak, he rested against the pillows, his head pounding. Scotty's image was fuzzy. "They don't want you digging anymore."

"I think you should rest, sir. _Bradbury_ will be here soon."

They both knew it was a lie. He shivered suddenly and Scotty pulled the light sheet up to cover his chest. He struggled to form his thoughts, his mind muddled, heart galloping. "Where did you find him?"

"South side. Would have been the sleeping quarters. Lucky bastard." Scotty paused, looking closely at him. "We got a way in, but … I'm not sure we have the right equipment."

He strained to look past Scotty, but he couldn't see anything through the wall of bodies. His head hurt and concentrating was difficult. "You're running out of time. Rain's coming."

Scotty scowled. "I don't think we need to worry about that, sir. Sky's clear. We shouldn't have any troubles."

"No," he insisted. "You don't have much time."

Scotty stood undecided for a moment before nodding. "We'll work through the night, sir." He hesitated, looking around.

"I'm all right, Scotty," he said, forcing a small smile to his lips. His heart rate had slowed, but sweat was pouring from him, soaking the sheets. "Go on."

"Aye, sir."

As soon as Scotty left, he closed his eyes and tried to will the pain in his head away. He began to shiver in earnest, and it only seemed to enhance the throbbing in his head and knee. It was then that he recalled what he'd said.

Rain's coming.

Where had that thought come from? His grandfather used to predict the weather by the feel of the air or the color of the sky. But Jim hadn't been out of the tent in days. Expelling a deep breath, he tried to relax. He was going stir-crazy, confined to bed, unable to move. His back was hurting. The drugs were making him foggy-headed and nauseated. He couldn't command like this with his mind fuzzy and thoughts scattered. The planet needed him.

No. His ship needed him.

Why were they here again? Rescue. Yes, they needed to rescue the scientists, get them off the planet. But as soon as he was able to focus on a solid thought, it would slip away, replaced with memories or dreams. He didn't know which. At one time, he thought he saw people, dressed in white robes, standing around him, murmuring in a language he couldn't understand. Though the language was alien, he understood there had been a war with many battles, but he resisted being pulled into the images, stubbornly remaining fixed memoires from his past.

He lost track of time, fighting his thoughts and trying to get command of his body, when McCoy was suddenly at his side. And so was Chapel. McCoy didn't look pleased. The doctor's hands were on either side of his face, holding him still and closely examining him.

"He's burning up. Where the hell are the monitors?" he demanded.

"I removed them as you ordered."

"I said to _replace_ them." McCoy was reaching for a small tray, loading a hypo. "Get Tani over here."

"Doctor, I—"

"Now!" He pulled on the IV line, pressing the hypo to the injection port.

He pulled away. "No more drugs." The motion twisted his back, but he reached out to grasp the hypo.

"Jim, it's okay. You have a high fever. This is just to help bring it down."

He shook his head. The motion sent the room spinning. His grip slipped as he tried to orient himself. Soon he felt the sting of medication rush through his arm.

"Get some cooling packs," McCoy ordered.

He shivered and closed his eyes.

The next time he opened them, the tent was dark with only a few soft lights casting grey shadows on the floor. His body was heavy and sore, but his head had stopped pounding. It was pleasantly silent and for a few moments, he just savored the sensation. Rolling his head slightly to the right, he saw McCoy in the chair next to his bed. A faint light from the PADD he was reading threw an eerie glow onto his face. As if on cue, McCoy looked up at him and seemed surprised to see him awake.

"You should be sleeping," McCoy said, putting the PADD aside.

"Mm." He tried to look around the tent, but the shadows were too thick for him to see much. "Who was it?"

McCoy frowned, then raised his eyebrows. "The scientist? Someone named Bletz."

He turned the name over in his mind. What a strange name, unfamiliar to him. "Did he die?"

"He did not. And despite being buried alive, he's doing a damn sight better than you." McCoy moved closer to the bed, studying him intensely. "Your fever was high. You had me worried."

He made a noncommittal sound. Bones worried too much. "How is he?"

"Broken tibia, dehydrated. He was in good shape, all things considered. He'll recover."

Yes, all things considered.

"There's a lot of people left behind." His words were slightly slurred.

McCoy scowled. "You need to rest. Your fever's down, but it took its toll."

 _I'm tired_. His eyes began to close and he shivered. Every muscle felt overworked, throbbing and sore. He tried to move his arm, but couldn't muster the strength.

McCoy pulled the blanket close around his shoulders.

"Where is … he?"

"Bletz? Over there. Sleeping, like you should be."

His eyes closed. The rain was coming. Soon everything would change.


	6. Chapter 6

Four more scientists were pulled free just as the sun came over the mountain top. They were dehydrated and weak, but surprisingly in good shape. Scott had found an opening into the spaces between the buildings. The building materials had acted as support, keeping the scientists from being crushed. As soon as McCoy was done treating them and they were lying safely in a monitored bed – pale and still shaken – Scott began pressing them for information. But none of them could supply him with anything valuable. They had been sleeping when the building had collapsed.

"One minute I was sleeping, the next the whole damn building was coming down," Itz said. He was a small man, with a thin build and narrow, dark eyes that appeared sunken next to his ashen complexion.

"It didn't collapse. It looks more like it sank."

Scotty turned to the female lying in the bed next to Itz. He glanced down at his PADD to read her name and position. "Dr. Walls. You were the geophysicist?"

"Yes." She had reddish brown hair, cropped short at her ears and sticking to her scalp from sweat and dirt. Licking her chapped lips, she focused on Scott. "You're right. The building sank. I could feel the shift."

"Aye. That's what we suspected."

She weakly shook her head. "That shouldn't be. We choose that site for a reason. The ground was stable."

"Most of your logs were lost," Scotty said, moving to stand at the foot of her bed. "But you didn't report any instability to Starfleet."

"There wasn't any."

"She's right," Itz said. "This place has been quiet. We don't even get any strong winds. The ecology here is damn near perfect." He looked around at the near empty tent. "Were we the last?"

Scotty's fingers gripped the PADD tightly. "No. We think there's about sixty or so still beneath the rubble."

"Jesus," Itz whispered, sinking back into the pillows. "Can't you just beam them out?"

Scotty spent the next few minutes explaining the rescue process and their limitations. He pointedly left out how many casualties the outpost had suffered and focused instead on trying to extract additional information that might speed up the recovery. It wouldn't be long before the survivors would know for themselves what fate had befallen most of their team. The large tent next door was full of the proof.

"So, it's just _Enterprise_?" one of the older men occupying the bed on the far end asked.

" _Bradbury's_ on its way. We have plenty of back up." Scott said it with much more confidence than he felt.

"Is Starfleet removing us?" Walls asked.

"I don't know. We've been ordered to retrieve survivors. You'll all be returning to Starbase 10."

Itz frowned. "They can't take us out of here. We have a contract."

Scott saw the tension ripple through the small group as all eyes were suddenly, and uncomfortably, focused on him. "I don't know about that. I have my orders."

"Aren't you the captain?" the old man asked.

"Me? No. I'm an engineer."

Which produced a snort from Walls and Itz and a dismissive change in body language.

"Now hold on," Scott began, feeling his temper rise.

McCoy was suddenly beside him. "That's enough for now, Mr. Scott. They need their rest."

Rest, hell. McCoy was offering him a lifeline and he took it.

"I want to talk to the captain," Walls demanded. "We're not leaving here on the say-so of an engineer."

Ouch.

"I'll be happy to make those arrangements," Scott said. With a brief nod, he turned and walked away.

Kirk's bed wasn't far from where the scientists rested, but the nurses' desk separated the two parties enough that Scott hoped they hadn't followed him. If they found out the captain was in the same tent as they were, they would give Kirk no peace. Just as he stopped next to Kirk's bed, he noticed McCoy erecting a holocurtain around the small group, isolating them from the rest of the tent. Still fuming, he took a moment to shake off the annoyance the scientists had caused before presenting himself to his captain.

Kirk looked paler than the last time Scott had seen him. His hair was plastered to his scalp and dark with sweat. Soft bruises underlined his eyes, making him appear exhausted. Scott watched Kirk resting, hesitant to disturb him. In a moment of uncertainty, he looked around the tent for McCoy, but the doctor must have been behind the newly erected holocurtain, because all he saw was the blond nurse at the desk and a technician nearby.

"His fever's high," McCoy had told him last night, sitting next to Kirk's bed. "Where in the hell is _Bradbury?_ "

He hadn't had an answer for McCoy. _Bradbury_ should have arrived by now, but all his attempts to contact them had been meet with subspace static. He'd placed a message to _Enterprise,_ but he wasn't putting much hope on that, either. Even if _Enterprise_ did respond, the Priority One distress call took precedence over anything that was happening on the outpost. They were stuck here until help arrived.

Suddenly, Kirk's eyes opened, glazed and unfocused at first. Scott straightened and took a step closer to the bed. "Morning, sir."

Kirk frowned, and Scott could see him trying to mentally catch up, shake off the sleep and drugs. The battle for clarity played out across the pale features – confusion and determination pushing against the limits of his body. His heartbeat accelerated on the monitor. There were IVs strung above the bed, the dancing tubes moving with his restlessness. It was still hot in the tent. Hot outside. It hadn't cooled off much in the night, but at least he'd breathed fresh air. The air in the tent was becoming stale. He could see the sweat on Kirk's bare skin, gathering in the newly prominent hollow of his collarbone.

Scott grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it near, plopping unceremoniously into it. It was the first time he'd sat in twelve hours and he felt it in every part of his body.

Kirk's tongue wet his lips. "Is it raining?"

The question caught Scott by surprise. "Ah … no, sir." Then he wondered how much Kirk knew. Had he slept through the rescue of the last group? "We found more scientists. Alive."

It took a moment for his eyes to clear, and in that moment, he was suddenly sharp and clear. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I know, Scotty. Four more."

"Aye." Scott felt heat rise to his cheeks.

Kirk frowned. "What day is it?"

"Ship's date, sir?" He had no idea what the outpost date was.

"How long have we been here? I'm losing track of time."

"I think we all are. It's been five days, and before you ask, no word from _Bradbury_. I put another message through last night."

"The Grid," he said knowingly, rolling his head along the pillow.

"Aye." He looked at Kirk with his thickly bandaged leg and the tubes attached to his limbs and shook his head. "I wish I could do something for you, sir."

"You can. Get the rest of the scientists out. I don't need _Bradbury_ rescuing us, as well."

That thought had crossed his mind, as well.

"They tell you anything?" Kirk asked.

"Nothing we didn't already know. They don't remember much after the building collapsed."

"They know something. They've been here over two years."

"Aye, about that, sir." He hesitated before continuing. "They want to stay."

Kirk frowned. "Stay here?"

"Aye."

Kirk stared at the tent ceiling for a long moment. "We'll deal with that once _Bradbury_ arrives."

"Aye, sir."

Kirk looked back at Scott. "When was the last time you slept? Or ate?"

Scott opened his mouth.

"You're off duty for six hours," Kirk said before he could speak. "Get some clean clothes, some food and rest. You're no good dead on your feet."

He wanted to argue. There was too much work to do, too little time. But the truth was, his crew could handle it and he really needed some rest. He nodded. "Aye, sir."

Getting out of the chair was not as easy as getting in. His muscles protested the movement and he staggered just a moment before righting himself. Stifling a moan, he stepped away, moving slowly.

Kirk watched Scott go, cursing his own lack of mobility. His knee throbbed again, but it was only a distant ache in his body. With his head pounding and his back aching, he had plenty of distractions. The fever had made his muscles and joints hurt; just lying still caused him discomfort. If he had been on _Enterprise_ , he'd have been out of Sickbay by now with Bones hovering occasionally and lecturing him about the merits of convalescing, but each day on the planet seemed to drain something from him.

The cicadas sounded again, rising up from outside the tent.

Fuck.

He groaned. The first thing he was going to do when he got to the ship was take a long shower. He imagined the rain coming down, drenching him, cool pellets softly beating against his skin, downing out the buzzing.

A gentle touch on his neck startled him. He opened his eyes to find Chapel looming close. He caught a clear whiff of the light citrus scent of her.

"Chatex," he murmured, identifying her perfume.

She didn't move back, but her eyebrow rose. " _That_ you remember."

"I remember a lot."

For a moment, she didn't move. He couldn't read her. She was an artist at camouflage, striking a pose of professional distance and yet still managing to look engaged. She straightened. "You look distressed."

"Thinking of a cool shower," he said simply. His throat hurt and he just now realized his mouth was dry and that his chest felt tight.

"Your temperature is still high." She reached for the IV regulator and pressed a series of buttons. "Feel like eating?"

He couldn't stop staring at her, as if he'd never noticed how flawless her complexion was, the delicate arch of her brows and her high cheek bones giving her an aristocratic look. "Christine Chapel."

That caught her by surprise, but she recovered quickly. "Jim Kirk."

A smile tugged at his mouth. She hadn't missed a beat. "It's captain."

"Of course, it is." She stared down at him. "Finally got it, huh."

That made him laugh, a low, gentle chuckle that suddenly turned from a tickling cough into a demanding hacking. He heard the wet cough rumble through his chest, stealing his oxygen. As the cough persisted, he struggled to sit up, desperate for air, but he couldn't get the right angle with his leg throbbing and useless. His body jerked from the harsh spasms, pulling on the fragile knee cartilage, and triggering a sensation of burning pain in the abused joint. Chapel slipped her hands beneath his back, supporting him off the cushion. Now he was coughing in earnest, trying to keep his knee stable. But soon all thoughts of his knee faded as his vision narrowed down to a pinpoint of light and all he heard was the rattle within his lungs. Hunched over, every muscle in his middle was tight and convulsing. Then another pair of hands was on him, strong and familiar. Bones.

A sharp sting at his neck halted the coughing, leaving him gasping for air. His spine was like wet leather and his body crumpled sideways, pulling at his already painful knee.

"Here, take a few breaths," Bones said, offering him a small mask.

He stared at it uncomprehendingly, taking staccato breaths that sounded like hiccups. His vision wasn't quite right and his head pounded like an angry drum, making it impossible to concentrate. Slowly, the mask closed over his mouth and he took his first breath of clean, cool oxygen. His arms were useless and trembling, the strength suddenly bled from them. As he carefully breathed, McCoy settled him onto the bed, his head lolling on the pillow. It took a few minutes for his thoughts to clear, the oxygen waking up his brain cells. He stared at McCoy, who was busy adjusting some equipment, while keeping a protective hand on the mask. Chapel stood near, her posture rigid and tight, contrasting with the concerned expression on her face. He had never been so aware of his heartbeat, thundering in his chest, sending his pulse soaring in his ears.

McCoy's face appeared in his line of vision. "Better?"

He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, McCoy was talking to Chapel. She nodded at what he was saying and left. Then McCoy's attention was back on him. Releasing his hand from the mask, he said, "Leave that on for a few more minutes. It'll help clear your head."

Which was pounding from the all the coughing. Somewhere beneath the painful headache was the droning. He arched up to flex his stiff back muscles, which had begun to spasm. He'd been in bed too long and every muscle was like dried rope, tight and brittle.

"Your back hurt?" McCoy asked with a frown.

"S'kay." The oxygen pushing through the mask was cold and dry, making his nose itch.

McCoy produced a small scanner and hovered it over his middle. "How long has your back been hurting?"

"Just stiff," he mumbled through the mask. He didn't like the look on Bones' face – intense and clinical.

"Your muscles are in spasm."

Terrific.

McCoy reached out and adjusted the level of his bed, raising him into a half-sitting position. Chapel appeared at the side of the bed, holding a tray. He eyed the tray suspiciously.

"Your temperature's up and there's fluid settling in your lungs. I'm going to try a pulmonary treatment and give you a dose of Zicine for your back. It isn't a muscle relaxant, but it'll stop the spasms and give you some relief."

He dragged the mask off his face. "How are the scientists?"

"Resting," McCoy said as he prepared a hypo. "This one is going to go directly into your back muscle."

Before he had a chance to protest, Chapel was helping him to sit up higher in the bed. He sagged against her with sudden weakness, trying to keep the coughing from beginning. McCoy was quick with the hypo, pressing it against his lower back with practiced ease. The hot flood of medication stung, causing his muscles to tense, and he inhaled sharply, feeling the breath fight with the pressure in his lungs. He hadn't realized he was gripping Chapel's soft arm until she began to lower him again. It was an effort to release her.

"Keep breathing, Jim," McCoy said.

He'd been holding his breath and released it now with relief. "What time is it?"

McCoy was preparing something on the tray, fully focused on his task. The clicks and snaps made Jim nervous. "I have no idea."

He'd had a pulmonary treatment before and knew from experience that it was exhausting and that he'd sleep for hours afterward. All he'd been doing was sleeping. Sleeping and dreaming. Meanwhile, the scientists were trapped and the rain was coming. What the hell were they doing here? They didn't belong here.

McCoy removed the mask from around his nose and mouth and looked him in the eyes. "Ready?"

McCoy looked down at the tray of food with disinterest. He wasn't hungry, but he'd gone to the food station anyway, gone through the motions of selecting a meal and waiting for the replicator to produce it. Now he held it in his hand, standing like a first-year plebe in the Academy mess, not knowing who to sit with or what to do. A hot breeze stirred the air. The sun had just hit the mountain top and was casting the little camp in a pale gold.

Maybe he should go for a walk.

A yeoman nodded as he passed by on his own way to the replicator. He looked too young, too eager and alert, as if they hadn't spent the last five hours digging more scientists out of the planet. His freshness annoyed McCoy.

"Hey, Doc."

McCoy nodded, stilling holding the tray of unappetizing food.

"Good day, huh?" the yeoman asked.

If you call meatball surgery a good day.? McCoy had spent hours in surgery with two of the scientists who had not fared as well as the others. And this after he'd spent an hour giving Jim a pulmonary treatment. Why in the hell Jim had developed fluid in his lungs was beyond McCoy, but between the fever and his lungs filling, McCoy couldn't wait to get his friend off the damn planet.

The yeoman took his food with a smile, nodded and left.

Sure. What did the young man care? This was probably the adventure he'd signed up for – explore new worlds, seek out new life forms, boldly go and all that bullshit. Nobody ever thinks about the cost. Nobody ever mentions the sacrifices to seeking out those new life forms. As if every new world welcomed the Federation with open arms.

"You look lost."

He looked up at the sound of Char's voice. She was staring at him with her usual impish expression. She knew damn well what he was thinking. Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he pinned her with a sharp stare. "Been a long day."

"I heard." She was unfazed by his sarcasm. "It's rough when a day starts with an autopsy. Hard to overcome a beginning like that."

"And yet we did." He began to turn away, not entirely sure where he was going. There were no tables, no mess. Just the food station set up like an abandoned repository.

"May I join you for dinner?"

Her question stopped his motion. He pivoted back to her with a scowl, as if she might be playing with him, engaging in some psychological game. But she wasn't. She stood there, open and sincere, waiting for his reply. After a moment, he nodded – partly because he hadn't planned on eating anyway and party because he was curious. What was her angle? Why was she so interested in him?

She smiled, as if she could hear his thoughts, and then punched in a series of numbers into the replicator, leaving him to wait with his tray. When her food arrived, she took her tray and stood next to him, letting him make the first move.

There was only one place to go, and that was his tent, unless they wanted to eat sitting on the benches that were haphazardly placed around the camp, and talk to every crewman passing by. But when they arrived, he discovered Scotty sleeping in his cot, dead to the world, snoring loudly. Before he knew it, Char had guided them to her private tent, just a few spots down. It was small, but functional and he found himself sitting on a sturdy supply box at the foot of her cot. She pulled another storage bin near and plopped herself down, balancing her tray on her knees. They looked like a couple of school kids in day camp.

"How are the scientists?" she asked before lifting a fork full of food to her mouth.

"Recovering." He picked at his own food. He'd ordered chicken.

"And Captain Kirk? I heard he wasn't doing well."

That brought his head up. His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you hear that?"

She chewed, shrugging, her eyes shining, as if she knew a secret. "Small camp."

He scowled. "He's doing fine." He looked back down at his tray. It didn't look like chicken. He picked at it.

After a few minutes, she announced, "Maybe this will help."

As he looked up, a bottle of liquor appeared between them. He eyed it suspiciously. "Anterian Water?"

"Salvaged from the wreckage." She poured two glasses. "You seem more like a brandy man, but …"

He took the glass she offered. "Bourbon," he corrected. "I guess Betazoids don't know everything."

That produced a laugh. "So that's why you've been staying clear."

The Anterian Water burned as it slid down his throat. Anterians didn't notice. They got high off the fumes. Humans on the other hand ….

He coughed slightly. It'd been a while since he'd tasted the brew and he remembered now that it never agreed with him. It had a kick at the beginning and left his stomach sour and his head hurting. He studied her, sipping her glass. She was studying him, but not in a clinical way. "Do Betazoids even get drunk?"

"You tell me."

She was flirting with him.

Without taking his eyes off her, he took a bite of his meat. It definitely wasn't chicken. She licked her lips. He felt the first stirring in his groin. This had been a bad idea. But he kept staring at her, kept eating the tasteless meat and sipping the Anterian Water until the tray was empty.

"It must be difficult being CMO," she said. "All that responsibility."

That took care of his growing erection. "No more than being the sole psychologist on a remote outpost."

She tilted her head. Her eyes were darker grey then he remembered. "Different. My function is very limited. Anyway, I'm studying."

He raised his eyebrows. "Studying what?"

She smiled and set her tray aside. "Are you done eating?"

He was. She took his tray and set it aside, moving closer. He could smell the faint fragrance of almonds. She hadn't taken her eyes off him and the attention was arousing.

"I like you," she said in a silky tone.

"Ah-huh." Blood was rushing to his cock.

"You know Betazoids can't read minds." Her fingers lightly touched his hair.

Sweat rolled down his neck. It was stifling in the tent. He felt his heartbeat increase. "I know. I'm a doctor."

"Yes, you are." The corners of her mouth curled.

He liked her lips – softly pink and full.

"I can't have relationships with the beings I'm assigned to." Her fingers trailed along his neck. "Not ethical."

Christ, it was hot.

"I think maybe you have the same issue."

Issue? What the hell was she talking about? Damn Anterian Water. He licked his lips. His mouth was dry.

"You've been in surgery all day," she said. Her hand came to rest on his rapid heartbeat. "Maybe you should take a little time to think about yourself."

"I have patients." The words slipped from his numb lips. My god, she smelled good.

"And a full medical team that's perfectly competent." Her hand came to rest on his thigh. "Don't you find me attractive?" Slowly her fingers curled, sinking into his flesh.

He almost groaned. He was hard now, not even caring to hide it. She leaned in and kissed him, sliding her hand toward his groin until her hand cupped him.

"I think maybe yes," she muttered against his lips. "You want to stop?"

"Hell, no." He grabbed her by the back of her head and pulled her into a proper kiss. It was meant to punish, but her fingers tightened slightly around his aching bulge and he swore.

She laughed and pulled away to stand. It was dark outside the tent, but a luminary had come on inside the tent, shedding a soft glow. With one hand, she loosened her hair and tossed off her tunic. He was on her in a moment – all thoughts of his responsibility erased.

When Kirk opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a man standing at the foot of his bed. He'd expected Bones, maybe one of the nurses. But this man – or being – wasn't familiar. His skin was pale, but not human pale and his eyes were unnaturally green, like sea glass. He stood watching Kirk with an expressionless face that was framed by straight, black hair that trailed past his shoulders.

Kirk tried to rally, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. It was one thing to wake with Bones watching him – he was familiar with that scenario, quite another when a stranger stood watch. He was captain, after all, and feeling exposed away from his ship – like a crab out of its shell. The pulmonary treatment had taken a lot out of him. He could still feel the bitter taste of the medicine in the back of his throat and the tight constriction of his chest as the sonic cleared his lungs. He blinked a few times, as if that might undo the last several hours and somehow inject energy into his muscles. He suddenly realized that it was dark outside the tent and that the tent was now filled with more beings, more scientists. He must have slept through the afternoon into the evening. "Who-"

His voice failed instantly as tried to speak, sticking painfully in his throat. Damn treatment. His throat was raw. Wincing, he tried to swallow and start again. But before he could speak, the man did.

"We apologize."

His head hurt, but not from the cicada sound that was now silent. It was a side effect of the treatment, a pounding, aching head. He felt the tightening around his chest and shifted uncomfortably. His body felt wrung out. Why was this man apologizing?

His vision wavered then sharpened. He wasn't in the bed anymore.

 _He was standing in a field. There had been a battle. Bodies lay across the burnt ground, blood soaking into the soil. It had been a good fight. Their last fight._

 _"_ _We have to leave," a female said. She was standing next to him, battle-worn, but not defeated. Almost serene. Resigned, perhaps?_

 _"_ _You mean surrender," he said. He'd been at her side before, with her on this field, and others. She was a warrior._

 _"_ _There's nothing left to fight for." Her hair had been blond, but she'd shaved it off in an act of solidarity. She looked beautiful. Strong._

 _"_ _We can't leave," he said, looking out over the field. The mountains had been destroyed, but they had been a good place to hide. For a while._

 _"_ _You want to die?" she asked._

 _He turned to look at her. "I want to stay."_

He was catapulted back into bed, the release from the dream, jarring and unpleasant. The man was gone. He was alone and struggling to breathe. He wheezed in a breath, but his lungs felt useless, shrunk down to the size of pea. A band had been placed around his chest, pulling, squeezing. A familiar panic rose. The kind of panic a person feels when they can't breathe, when they are oxygen-starved. He tried to sit up, hoping to give his lungs space to expand, but only managed to curl onto his side, the room tipping in shadows. Reaching out blindly, he heard something crash onto the floor in a loud clatter, felt the pull of his IV. He pressed his trembling arm against the rumpled bed, trying to force his chest to rise, and used all his failing strength to expand his lungs. But they remained frozen.

Breathe!

Fluid gurgled within his lungs, crushing and pressing.

He was drowning.


	7. Chapter 7

The rain started suddenly. For a long moment, McCoy didn't realize the soothing sound that had penetrated his sleep was the rhythmic patter of rain on the ceiling of the tent. It had been months since he'd heard rain. For a moment, he thought he was back in Georgia in his grandmother's house during a summer storm, listening to the sound of the rain on the old tile roof and hoping it would muffle the sounds of him masturbating as he thought of Mary Jo Wilton and her long, dark, curly hair that made her look wild and sweet at the same time. He could still dream of Georgia, of a life long past and almost forgotten, of a boyhood innocent of space viruses, raging Klingons and three-hundred-year-old madmen. A life that no longer seemed like his.

The soft body next to him moved and he knew he wasn't in Georgia. His grandmother never allowed girls in his room. And anyway, he wouldn't be seeing Earth for five more years. The brush of a naked hip against his thigh made him smile. Definitely not Georgia and not _Enterprise_. Char – an unexpected pleasure on a backwater planet that had been nothing but miserable from the start. A thin sheet covered them and it was too dark to see more than a silhouette, but he had a good memory. He could still see her fair skin and long legs as she stood naked and unapologetic before him. She was astonishingly confident and comfortable within her own body, never flinching as he stared at her well-rounded breasts and perfectly erect nipples that begged for his mouth.

Shit.

He felt himself getting hard. Maybe he wasn't so far removed from that kid in Georgia. He reached out to stroke her hip. She was well-muscled and firm, but soft to his touch. That's what he liked about her, what he liked about all humanoid females – their complexities. They were never just one thing or another. They were like chameleons, adapting to the needs of their environment. He wanted to dip his hand between her thighs and feel that moist pleasure. Betazoids didn't have pubic hair and he'd loved seeing her bare and completely open to him, loved exploring every warm fold.

"Something on your mind?" she mumbled and pushed her butt closer to him, feeling his erection.

He answered by slipping his hand between her thighs.

She sighed, but it was more of moan. "You've got great hands."

He kissed the back of her neck as his fingers found a special spot, rubbing with just the right amount of pressure. "I'm a surgeon."

"Yes, you are." She rolled onto her back and let her legs drop open. She pressed her hands to his back as he shifted to nuzzle her breasts.

"God, you taste good."

"Mmm." She moved her hips against his hand.

Her movement made him smile and he took one of her nipples in his mouth. He liked that about her, too, that she wasn't shy about getting what she wanted out of this. He remembered his ex-wife, always pulling away and shifting, back and forth, as if she couldn't be reconciled with her desire.

"What's that?" she mumbled, her head coming off the pillow.

"This?" He inserted a finger into her, eliciting a sharp intake of her breath as she arched against him.

"No. Ah." She took a few measured breaths, her fingers curling into his back. "That sound."

He was kissing her neck, inhaling the almond scent that had infused her skin, while moving his finger skillfully inside her. "Rain."

"No."

And then he heard it: an incessant beeping intruding on their privacy, muffled slightly by the pouring rain. It caused him to stop. Slowly he lifted his head and immediately recognized the sound, the all-too-familiar beeping of the call to duty. Damn it. He rolled off Char in a single move, unceremoniously removing his hand from inside her, eliciting a sound of protest from her. Where did he put the damn thing? His clothes were in a pile on the fabric floor. The rain was distorting his hearing, making it difficult to locate the single source of sound.

"Here," Char said. She was still a little breathless.

He turned. She held the small communicator in her hand. Taking it, he flipped it open, painfully aware of his erection. "McCoy."

"Doctor. We have an emergency." It was one of the nurses. He couldn't recognize who. "Captain Kirk is Code Blue. Dr. Lyke is with him."

He went cold. When he'd left Jim, he'd been sleeping soundly, his lungs clear. "I'm on my way."

He'd learned to dress quickly during his residency and even quicker since taking a position on a starship. Red alerts and emergencies were commonplace. But he'd never dressed so fast, pulling on his pants and boots without thinking. Char was there to hand him his shirt and he was out the door, long legs sprinting across the compound, rain pouring over him. It was dark, but he knew where he was going and in a matter of seconds he rushed through the medical tent's door and into the ward. It was dimly lit, except for the area where Jim had been placed.

The bright lights above Jim's bed lit the small area, illuminating two nurses and Lyke who surrounded the bed. He saw a nurse – one of his, Janie Erban – at Jim's head, holding an ambu bag over his nose and mouth, forcing oxygen into his lungs. They hadn't intubated yet then and that was a good sign. Wet and breathless, he raced toward the bed. "What happened?"

The bed had been lowered so that Jim was prone. The sheet had been pulled away. Jim's right arm dangled over the edge of the bed. McCoy saw that his IV had been ripped out and a thin line of blood traced its way down his pale arm, running off the tip of his finger.

"Pleural effusion," Lyke said. He had a scalpel in his right hand and was in the process of making a small cut between Jim's ribs on his right side.

Thoracentesis. Lyke was going to drain the fluid from Jim's lungs. Any first-year resident could do the procedure and Lyke was competent. Still, McCoy didn't like seeing someone else cutting into Jim. Standing by and watching made him anxious. The last time he'd been an observer was when Boyce was Jim's primary physician at Fleet Hospital. That was after Jim had climbed into the warp core and McCoy had used Khan's blood to bring him back to life. He wasn't a good observer when it came to Jim, but he couldn't put his hands on his patient. Not yet. Not after where his hands had been. He wasn't sterile and there wasn't time.

He watched as Lyke made the small cut on the pale, smooth skin and quickly forced a tube into the opening, pushing through the ribs into the chest cavity. It wasn't a gentle procedure. Jim's body rocked with the force of the procedure. No one cared about gentleness when the patient was drowning in their own fluid. Instantly, the tube filled with a clear fluid and he breathed a sigh of relief. A quick glance at the monitor told a critical story. Several vitals were in the red, including his O2 stats which were below ninety percent and his heart rate which was going through the roof.

Suddenly, Tani was in front of him, guiding him to the small cart with the sterile process, intuitively knowing what he needed. He rolled up his sleeves as she sprayed the cool fluid on his hands. It was field surgery sterilization, nothing like he'd do for surgery aboard the _Enterprise_. But he wasn't going to operate on Jim. God willing. The liquid dried instantly, killing the bacterium that was on his skin. Effective, but it made his hands itch.

"His sats are coming up," Lyke said from his position at the bed.

He nodded to Tani and moved back to Jim. Erban continued to press oxygen into Jim's lungs, giving him assistance in absorbing the much-needed oxygen.

"Give him a standard dose of tri-ox." He took up a position next to Jim, squeezing next to Erban. "Keep up the compressions," he ordered her. Jim's O2 sats were still too low. "Get me a C1 scanner."

On _Enterprise_ , he'd be able to see a cellular scan by pressing a button. Full X-Rays and CTI scans were connected to all the biobeds. But this was a field hospital, designed for emergencies and not equipped for such luxuries.

Lyke was wiping the blood off his hands while Tani handed McCoy the scanner. He passed it slowly over Jim's torso, seeing where the fluid had built up, pushing the lungs out of position, so that they were unable to inflate properly, pressing on the heart. The drain was in a good position but would take time to give Jim the relief he needed. In the meantime, he had to prevent Jim's condition from getting worse.

"Where the hell did this fluid come from?" Lyke asked, sealing a bandage over the incision. "You just did a pulmonary treatment."

That's what McCoy wanted to know. The edema had come on suddenly. They hadn't changed Jim's meds and the fever, while persistent, wouldn't have caused this. His blood work was clean. Studying the images, he was satisfied the drain was doing its job, but Jim still needed assistance to breathe. He fed the images to the main file and handed the scanner off to Tani. "Let's get an O2 mask on him."

Erban nodded and moved to retrieve a mask, removing the ambu bag. As she settled the mask in place and set the oxygen level, Jim lay completely still, deeply unconscious. The red flush of fever stained his cheeks, a startling contrast on an otherwise too pale complexion.

A soft alarm sounded. Not on Jim's monitor. One of the other patients.

"I'll get it," Lyke said and moved off.

Tani followed as Erban began to insert a new IV. McCoy raised the bed so that Jim was on an incline. Controlling Jim's fluid production was critical now. He was unstable, but out of immediate danger. Still, he needed constant monitoring and McCoy needed to perform a more thorough examination. Through the mask, McCoy could hear the wet sound of Jim's breathing as they worked silently around him.

Outside the tent, the planet was dark and the rain poured down.

 _He'd been stabbed. He'd felt the hot lance penetrate his side, breaking ribs and puncturing his lung. It was almost a shock as it happened, as if he couldn't quite fathom his mortality. He lay now on the barren ground, blood gurgling up from the hole in his chest, staring blindly up at the cloudy sky knowing that he was the last. He'd killed the one who'd stabbed him. It was over._

Jim opened his eyes to a blurry world. The softness of the bed beneath him confused him for a moment. The ground had been hard and warm, uncomfortable, but inviting. There was something over his nose and mouth, the hard ridges pressing unpleasantly into his skin. They were trying to suffocate him. It hurt to breathe, but he clung to the pain, feeling the tip of the lance still embedded deeply into his body.

Why hadn't he died?

He was shaking. Something light and soft covered him.

"Try not to move," the voice said. "You're all right."

His vision focused enough for him to see Bones' face hovering near his own. Head pounding and chest hurting, he tried to speak, but began to cough instead. And that's when he knew that the lance must still be in him, still buried in his flesh, because the agony that ripped through him made him curl into himself. Strong hands held him in place. He blindly reached out and gripped a set of muscular arms, sinking his fingers into the solid flesh to anchor himself as his vision went white. For a long time, he knew only pain, as if his chest had been torn open. Each staggering breath produced another wave of agony. Still he clung to Bones, distantly feeling the sting of a hypo at his neck.

The cough subsided, but the pain remained. Taking shallow breaths, he felt Bones settle him against the pillow. His body felt wrung out and lifeless, fingers losing their grip and arms dropping to the bed. It was all he could do to keep breathing.

"That's right," Bones said soothingly. He was close to Jim now, a cool hand on the side of his neck. "Just take small breaths."

But drawing air in was a monumental task. His chest was tight and heavy, as if someone, or something, were pressing down on him. The oxygen coming in from the mask helped marginally. Still, he breathed – one breath, then another. Minutes later the scene before him solidified, righted. There was a lot of white around him. Bones was staring intently at him.

"Are you with me?"

Of course. The pounding in his head had lessened, but his thoughts were sluggish and everything seemed to be moving very slowly. He looked around without moving his head. No emergency. No sirens. It was quiet. Something felt off, but he didn't know what.

"Jim?"

He returned his gaze to Bones and nodded just slightly, not risking words.

"Good." Bones continued to study him, until he seemed satisfied and removed his hand to sit back. "I gave you something for the cough. You've got a lot of fluid in your chest and lungs. We put in a drain, but …."

It took him a moment to sort it all out, but his mind was like Swiss cheese – all peppered with holes. As he continued to take short breaths, he felt the pull of something on his right side. He stared down to see a swath of bandaging with tubing sticking out of him. He closed his eyes. Goddamn, it hurt to breathe.

"I know it's uncomfortable. Try to rest."

He opened his eyes and gave Bones an incredulous look. Was he kidding?

Bones grimaced. "I know. But you've got stay still and not aggravate your cough or disrupt the drain."

He frowned. It was as if he was hearing it all for the first time, suddenly realizing that this medical crisis had happened to him when the last thing he remembered was being— Wait. What happened to the man?

He looked around the tent, rolling his head along the pillow. The white that surrounded him was a holocurtain, pulled close around his bed, separating him from the rest. It felt small and crowded.

"You're still on the outpost," Bones supplied, watching him closely.

He shivered. What had happened to the man?

"Thought you'd like the privacy."

It took an effort to roll his head back to face Bones.

"It's a little more crowded. We rescued more scientists. Scotty thinks…"

He stopped listening to Bones. There was something else pulling at his attention, a sound in the distance that he couldn't distinguish, but that caused a growing concern. And then he recognized it.

"Rne." The word came out muffled and distorted. His throat was thick and raw and the one word took too much strength.

Bones scowled. "Don't talk, Jim."

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, feeling his heart pounding against his chest, hearing the wheeze each time he drew in air. It took a long time before he opened them to stare at Bones, who was watching his monitor. "Rain."

Bones' eyes snapped back to him, sharp and clinical. "It's raining, yes. Started last night. Now no more talking."

No. No. No. It was too soon to rain. He moved restlessly, as if he could get out of bed, storm through the curtains and strut out into the rain. But his body betrayed him. Just to move his arms and leg took an overwhelming amount of energy.

"Hey, hey," Bones said softly, but firmly, rising from his position to hover over Jim and put a reassuring hand on his left side to steady him. "Everything is all right. We're safe here."

Sweat rolled down his face. The small movement had exhausted him and made him starved for air. He wheezed in a breath and moved again, even though he knew it was futile. His left leg raised as his vision went gray. In a desperate move, he reached for the mask.

"You need to stay still, Jim." This time Bones' words were stern and commanding, his hand gripping Jim's to prevent the removal of the mask. "That stays on."

It was suffocating him, smothering him, burying him.

"Calm down. Damn it, Jim."

Other voices surrounded him. His eyes were closing as darkness folded around him. Bones was wrong. They had to leave. It wasn't safe anymore.

The _Aurora_ was a kind of floating city, even though it billed itself as a transport ship. It wasn't exactly state-of-the-art, but it was solid and functional, designed for long space travel. That made it perfect for civilian transport – affordable and accommodating. But it was nothing to look at.

"I'm getting sick of looking at that thing," Chekov said from his console.

"Yeah," Sulu said with a sigh. "Four days of this is enough."

The _Aurora_ filled _Enterprise's_ main view screen, scarred and dulled by years of use. 'Battle scars' the commander had declared proudly to Spock. He could explain each one, and had, while syphoning _Enterprise's_ liquor supply. Enough was enough. Ivy had fixed the main problem and got the engines back on line, but there was more damage than first assessed and _Enterprise_ had had to call for assistance with the repairs. The commander had asked _Enterprise_ to hang around until the relief ship, with the new parts, arrived. That had been two days ago.

Spock sat in the command chair, reviewing and signing the daily reports, as well as authorizing additional supplies to the _Aurora_. He knew if he asked Sulu, he'd say the commander was showing inhuman patience with the _Aurora's_ crew. It wasn't as if _Enterprise_ didn't have something else to do.

"Mr. Spock," Uhura said from her console. "I'm receiving a reply from the _Lexington_." She turned to Spock with a smile. "They're less than twelve hours out."

"Cavalry in the nick of time," Sulu muttered to Chekov, who nodded with enthusiasm.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Spock replied. "Any reply from the _Bradbury_?"

Her face sobered. "None."

"Maybe they are still in the Grid," Chekov said.

But that would be an inordinate amount of time for the ship to be displaced. They should have reached the outpost days ago. The fact that they had had no communication with the starship made the bridge crew very nervous.

"Do you think it's lost?" Uhura asked.

"No," Spock said.

It wouldn't be the first ship to disappear in the Grid. But _Bradbury_ was a Class A Starship, not a freighter or small pilot ship. It had navigational capabilities designed to overcome the complexities of the Grid.

"Maybe they're at the outpost," Sulu volunteered. "And their comms are down."

A possibility, but unlikely. Spock stared at the view screen. The last time he had been in command of the _Enterprise_ the ship had been crippled, allowing it to be pulled into Earth's atmosphere, and Jim had been dying in engineering. Was it a misplaced sense of déjà vu that was giving him a growing sense of uneasiness, the same uneasiness that had interrupted his meditation each night? Or was it something else?

He had been aware of the mental connection he'd formed with Kirk, a thin fiber that stretched between them, so faint that Kirk may not have even been aware of its existence. Not uncommon for Vulcans, but rare in the human species. He could sense it only if he were in meditation, but over the past few days, it had become more known to him outside of the discipline of meditation.

 _"_ _Humans are capable of much more than they realize," his father had told him. "A bond can be formed without entering Pon Farr."_

But he had not formed such a bond with Nyota, with whom he was copulating. That had been by choice – for her sanity as well as his. The bond he'd formed with Kirk had been organic, and he was still uncertain as to how it had formed. Or why.

Sulu turned around in his chair and looked at Spock. "If the _Bradbury_ hasn't arrived, do you think the Captain and crew are all right?"

It was a question no one had dared to voice, but now there it was, demanding an answer.

"I will not engage in speculation," Spock said. "The Captain is more than capable of responding to a variety of crises."

"No distress signal's been sent," Chekov said hopefully.

"Even if it were, it would have been subspace," Sulu said. And that meant it would take days to receive, days without help, stranded alone at an outpost on a planet where almost every occupant had been killed.

Silence followed, as if hope had been dashed. Sulu swiveled around to the front and focused on his console, shoulders slumping. Spock observed the change in body language and glanced back to Nyota. She, too, was worried, had expressed it to him privately.

Worry was illogical. They must wait until the Lexington appeared before they could depart.

"No news is good news," Chekov whispered.

No human would have heard the faint expression, but Spock's Vulcan hearing was acute. An odd sentiment he'd heard humans utter in times of distress as a means of self-soothing, a practice Vulcans took no part in. He relied on his Vulcan half now, the cool logical half that indicated they did not have enough information to make an informed decision.

 _"_ _Speculative Philosophy is not part of this discipline, Spock, son of Sarek," his teacher informed. "It is a purely human exercise. Vulcans base theories on verifiable scientific methods."_

But in the back of Spock's mind, in the thin fiber of the bond he shared with Kirk, he felt his friend's fear and something akin to pain, and he knew all was not right.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapel sat with her back uncomfortably straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap, fingers twisting nervously in an effort to keep the rest of her body still. Sitting and waiting was the worst.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She kept saying that in her mind, over and over like a prayer, as she watched Jim struggling for breath. The sound of his wheezing filled the small area, muffled only by the sound of the rain on the roof of the engineered tent. He was inclined with a thin bandage protecting the drain. She'd pulled the blanket up to cover him and offer him comfort, but it was partially for her, as well. She hated seeing him like this. He was pale and unmoving, his face partially obscured by the oxygen mask, tubes coming out of him.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

He wasn't supposed to be hurt and critical, struggling to breathe and failing, pale and weak. He was supposed to be cocky and in command, annoyingly confident and brash. He'd always been shameless and charming, a bundle of constantly moving energy and enthusiasm.

She pried her fingers loose and wiped her sweaty palms on her pant legs. Very gently, she touched his arm. It was hot with fever. But it was the stillness that disturbed her. Even in sleep, Jim Kirk wasn't still. Not this kind of still. She remembered lying next to him with her head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat and absently running her fingers across his pectorals. She'd felt the energy, the vitality that drew people in to him. Charisma, the instructors had said. Arrogance, her friends condemned. Whatever it was, she had never intended to fall in love with him.

Of all the stupid things she had done, that took the prize. She tightened her fingers on his arm and felt tears spring to her eyes. She'd known of his reputation with females. Any females. He did not limit himself to humans. He was indiscreet and cavalier with his relationships.

Relationship? Since when did Jim Kirk have relationships?

A sound outside the curtain startled her and she pulled her hand back off his arm as if burned.

McCoy entered the small area, deftly avoiding the partially drawn holocurtain. She'd come on her shift at dawn to discover that Jim had stopped breathing in the night, his chest filled with fluid. McCoy had ordered a constant watch on Jim.

"He's not to be left alone," McCoy had said sternly. She'd screwed up with the monitors and McCoy was still pissed. He must have been desperately short of staff to allow her to watch over the fallen captain.

He simply nodded an acknowledgement as he approached the bed and lowered the blanket to expose the drain that was inserted in Jim's chest. After a moment, he studied the monitor with a scowl, his mouth a tight line. For a moment, she worried she'd missed something and braced for a reprimand.

With a short, expelled breath, he shifted his attention back to Jim. His mouth softened as gently touched Kirk's fevered forehead. The gesture surprised her. Though she'd never worked with a doctor who touched his patients as much, it was the intimacy of the act that stunned her. But more than that, McCoy's expression revealed his level of concern. It occurred to her that they were more than doctor-patient, that McCoy had a place in Kirk's life and that he actually cared for Jim. But that's how it was with Jim. Love or hate him; there was no middle ground. What had the doctor done to gain that kind of entrance into Jim's world?

"He hasn't moved," she volunteered. Her words sounded slightly more elevated than she intended.

McCoy didn't respond as he brushed his hand across Jim's hair. Suddenly uncertain, she stood, her fingers twisting together. "Should I do something more?"

McCoy was silent for a moment, focusing on Kirk. Then he slowly shook his head. "There's nothing more to do." He straightened and looked at her. "Keep an eye on his O2 sats. Let me know immediately if there's any change."

"Yes, Doctor."

He left. It took a few minutes before she was calm enough to sit again. This time, she kept her hands pressed safely in her lap.

Scotty rushed into the medical ward, completely drenched and breathless. His boots made a sloppy wet sound on the fabricated floor, echoing loudly in the ward that was awake and humming with activity. McCoy heard the disruptive noise and turned with a scowl from his position at Kirk's bed. The holocurtain had been partially pulled aside to accommodate the constant monitoring by the medical staff. McCoy got to his feet as Scotty approached.

" _Bradbury's_ on her way," Scotty said breathlessly.

"It's about goddamned time." The rain hadn't stopped since it started, putting a halt to the rescue and dropping the temperature forty degrees. They didn't have enough blankets and no way to heat the tent, making the patients uncomfortable. "What time?"

"What?"

"What time is the _Bradbury's_ arrival?"

"Seven, eight hours."

McCoy's mouth tightened. "Well, which is it? Seven or eight?"

Scotty stared at him slack-jawed, as if McCoy had punched him. "Ah … seven and half hours. They estimate."

He would never admit this aloud, but he missed Spock and his annoying penchant for precision. Seven and a half hours. He glanced back at Jim. They'd drained two liters of fluid from Jim's chest and he was struggling to maintain a dismal ninety-three percent O2 sat.

Scotty motioned to Kirk. "How is he?"

McCoy looked grim. "Not great. The sooner we get off this rock the better."

"Wish everybody felt that way."

McCoy nodded. The scientists who had been rescued had become very vocal about on their desires to remain on the planet. It was as if being rescued had been an inconvenience to them, and how dare Starfleet suggest they leave and abandon their work? "They'll be Captain Franklin's problem."

"Or ours if _Enterprise_ shows up."

Military protocol, McCoy thought with distain, and looked back at his patient. Kirk's body was becoming exhausted with the effort to breath, fighting pain and fever. Intubation was a real possibility and one that he didn't want to undertake unless absolutely necessary. _Bradbury_ damn well better be on time. He put a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed the stiff muscles. "Nothing from _Enterprise_?"

Scotty shook his head.

"Shouldn't they have returned by now?"

"Depends on the _Aurora's_ condition. Something sure enough delayed them."

Something? He looked closely at Scotty. "You think they're all right?"

"Ach. They're fine, Doc. We would know if something were wrong."

"How in the hell would we know that? We haven't had any communications from them since they left."

Scotty shook his head, clearly unconcerned. "You know how these transport ships are."

He had no clue. He'd spent most of his life on Earth avoiding transport ships. A soft alarm near Kirk's bed sounded. He was at Kirk's side instantly, assessing the alarm. Another drop in the O2 sats. A frown puckered Kirk's brow and his eyelids fluttered and stilled.

McCoy tapped the commands on the IV regulator, pushing more medications through the line.

 _Come on, Jim. You can do better than this._

He grabbed a scanner and hovered it over Kirk's chest. The fluid was still building up, despite their best efforts to drain the excess. He swore under his breath. He was running out of options. Another chest tube was risky, especially in Jim's condition.

Tani entered the small enclosure, responding to the alarm.

McCoy reached for Jim's chart and made his medical notes. "I'm increasing the diuretic. Keep an eye on his urine output. If this doesn't work, I'll have to intubate."

She nodded, coming to stand on the opposite side of the bed. "Should we increase the oxygen level?"

"It's already at its highest. We're going to have to hope the medication does the trick."

She paused, studying Kirk. "He's getting tired."

He glanced at Jim, unnaturally pale and still. The complexion of the young man had turned sickly ashen with a fine sheen of perspiration from the constant fever. The rattle in his chest could be heard without the benefit of instruments, a wet rumbling that made McCoy wince. He pressed his lips together. For the first time since landing on this piece of rock he wanted to hit something. Hard. " _Bradbury's_ seven hours out."

"Maybe the rain will stop by then."

He shot her a penetrating look and quickly realized she was attempting to lighten the mood. Gallows humor. Only medical personnel would find humor in this. He wasn't in the mood. "Just monitor him closely, nurse. I'm going to do rounds. We've got to start preparing for departure."

 _Bradbury_ was late, forty-five minutes late, by McCoy's calculation. So, when the away team arrived – via shuttle – he was less than gracious.

"No transporter!?" McCoy stared at the young Commander who stood, soaking wet, in the middle of the medical tent.

"I'm afraid so, sir." The Commander made an attempt to wipe the streams of water from his face and present himself in a more professional manner. "We sustained some damage navigating the Grid."

The scientists who had been treated were still housed in the medical tent and now stood anxiously nearby, conspicuously eavesdropping on the doctor's conversation.

McCoy swore under his breath. God, he hated this place.

"Captain Franklin didn't want to risk using the transporter until engineering was sure it was completely repaired and tested. We've got shuttles coming in, sir."

"I want a medical shuttle to transport the most urgent patients."

"Yes, Doctor."

"And get me a decent pilot. I want a smooth ride, not some damn hopper."

"Yes, sir."

"We're not going anywhere," Itz said, stepping forward. For a man who'd been buried in the ground for several days, he looked too remarkedly refreshed.

The Commander turned. "And you are?"

"Thea Itz, chief geologist. We have a contract with the Federation. We're not leaving our post because of a few sink holes."

McCoy clenched his jaw and remained silent.

"That will be Captain Franklin's decision."

"The hell it is. No ship's captain is going to tell us what to do."

The five other scientists who had gathered around nodded in agreement, echoing Itz's sentiments. They began to surround the Commander.

"Get a medical team down here," McCoy interjected to the Commander. He didn't have time for this.

"Yes, Doctor," the Commander said and turned his attention back to the scientists. "I'll talk to Captain Franklin about your request."

McCoy moved away and prepared to transport his patients. Moving Jim wasn't an easy task. Medical transports were fully equipped, but Jim needed immobility, not only for his knee, which had remained swollen despite the drainage tube, but also for his lungs. He needed to remain elevated and still, the drainage tubes secure. They'd be moving oxygen support, numerous IVs and monitors.

Chapel appeared next to him as he assessed Jim for a final time. They'd have to transfer Jim to a gurney. The bed was not designed to transport.

"Are we beaming up the equipment, as well?" Chapel asked.

"No transporter," McCoy said without looking at her. "We're going to shuttle out."

"Shuttle?" She looked with concern at Jim. "It'll be a little slower navigating the atmosphere, with the rain and all. Might be a bumpy ride."

He paused in his assessment to look at her, with a raised eyebrow. "Where did you learn about the hazards of piloting shuttles, Nurse?"

Jim had taught her. He'd ramble on about aero physics and navigational pulls while they lied in bed, sated from sex. She'd been content to rest her head on his chest and inhale the musty scent of him. She hadn't realized until this moment that she'd even been listening to him, much less absorbed what he'd been saying. Heat rose to her cheeks. "I dated a pilot for a while."

"That must have been torture," McCoy quipped, staring down at the small monitor in his hands.

She shrugged. "He had his merits."

Tani entered the small area, pushing aside the holocurtain. "We're shuttling out of here? Are they serious?"

"Unfortunately, yes," McCoy answered flatly. "We're going to move the most serious first. The shuttles are small. Only three patients per shuttle with one primary physician and a nurse. That's Captain Kirk, Anderson and Benea in the first shuttle and Gandi, Donet and Tinna in the second shuttle."

Tani frowned. "Are we sure that Captain Kirk's illness is not contagious?"

"Everyone's been exposed if he is. We need to get him on board with proper medical facilities." He stood, putting down the scanner.

"How long is the shuttle ride going to be?" Tani asked with concern.

"Too long." He took a moment to look at Jim. Not the patient and the tubes and the medical processes. Jim was sleeping with an oxygen mask firmly in place, but his complexion was pale gray and sticky, matting the thick, blond wisps of his hair to his forehead. And then he ended the moment, pulling his attention to the work that lay ahead. "Tani, I want you with Lyke in the second shuttle. Chapel, you're with me. I want to be ready to move by the time the shuttles arrive."

 _Jim was hovering, unanchored by gravity. He had felt the ground disappear beneath his feet and had the strong sensation of floating. He'd risen from where he'd been buried, deep in the ground, and he stared down at the planet in a strangely detached manner. It was blackened and desolated. Years of war had ravaged the once beautiful planet. While the mountains remained, they were much smaller, mere barren mounds of dirt, disturbed only by the wind that seemed to blow constantly from the oceans. The atmosphere had been disrupted. The ecology destroyed. They had killed it. They had killed an entire species, an entire planet._

He opened his eyes as a heavy sorrow weighed on him. It was familiar and oppressive, pushing down on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Memories flooded him. Pike lying with his eyes open and unseeing, motionless, but still warm to his touch. It had happened too fast. He'd had no warning, no time to prepare. One moment Pike was sitting next to him, speaking to him.

 _"_ _Not now, James."_

James. He hadn't been able to say good-bye. A sob caught in his chest. A sharp pain ripped across his lungs.

Tears rolled down his temples. My god, he hadn't thought of that moment in months, but now it was as if it had just happened. He could still smell the smoke in the air and feel Pike's still flesh on the tips of his fingers, hear the rush of blood in his ears.

"Doctor," a soft voice called.

Why was it so difficult to breathe? He cautiously inhaled. The pain was jagged, cutting under, and through, his chest. A faint mist filled his nose, but he was only vaguely aware of it, concentrating instead on taking shallow breaths and keeping the pain at bay. His vision went from white to watery. He was staring at a low ceiling and it was uncomfortably bright. The sensation of flight penetrated his murky senses. Were they moving? Or was he falling?

McCoy's face came into view, a deep scowl drawing the dark brows together. "Are you in pain?"

He blinked, but couldn't shake the sorrow. Everything seemed too close, the walls, the ceiling, McCoy. And there was no damn air in the room.

"Push another amp of TriOx," McCoy ordered without taking his eyes from Jim. "You're on a shuttle on your way to the _Bradbury_."

A suddenly jolt sent a new wave of pain through his chest. He cried out, squeezing his eyes shut through a flash of white.

"We've got patients back here!" McCoy called out.

His ears were ringing. He realized it had been some time since he'd heard the cicadas, but this was different. Slowly, he opened his eyes, trying to take even more shallow breaths. Not moving dulled the pain only slightly. The click of a hypo sounded near and he felt the hot flush of medications being pushed through the IV in his arm. It did nothing to alleviate the pain. He had trouble focusing. The ceiling looked like a mass of clouds and he couldn't see McCoy anymore.

"Scientists." His voice was strained, thin and rasping.

"They're fine. Don't worry about them. Captain Franklin has a relief crew on its way down."

A dark blob floated in his line of sight. Why couldn't he focus?

" _Enterprise_?"

"I don't know, Jim. Stop talking. We've got another two hours in flight. I want you to try to rest."

How long had it been since _Enterprise_ left? How many days had he been on the planet? His head pounded. In the distance, he heard movement and soft mumblings, but it seemed muffled and unimportant.

A rumble settled in his chest, aching to be released. He shifted, trying to get air.

"I'm going to try and elevate you a little to help ease your breathing," McCoy said.

For a long time, there was only white, as if his vision had been reduced to a single pinpoint. Then slowly thoughts came to him and finally his vision cleared somewhat. McCoy was sitting next to him, hunched slightly and hands busy with something he couldn't see. He watched McCoy and pulled in breath after breath, but it was like breathing through paper. Not enough oxygen fed him, despite the mask, and any movement of his lungs sent new waves of pain through him. If there was another area of his body that hurt, he was unaware of it.

He realized McCoy was watching him tight-lipped.

"I can't give you anything for the pain, Jim," McCoy said evenly. "Your lungs are filling with fluid and the pain medication would suppress your respirations too much."

He half-nodded, trying to keep focus. Images bobbed and dipped around him.

"Once we're on the _Bradbury_ , I'll be able to do surgery, get you some proper treatment. You'll be back on your feet before you know it."

Another jolt and his body tossed on the bed, igniting agony inside his chest. McCoy's hands quickly reached to hold him in place while he closed his eyes against the pain.

 _The lance penetrated his chest. He didn't feel the pain at first, only a stunning shock of realization: he'd been killed. The last on his side still standing. His enemy had come out of nowhere and thrust the lance before he'd had a chance to react. But now he reacted, without thought, driving his weapon into his enemy's throat. The startled expression on the other's face was a bitter satisfaction as his legs collapsed beneath him and he fell unceremoniously to the ground._

 _He stared up at the sky, drawing what he knew was his last breath and feeling a profound sorrow. He had won, in a way. But at that moment, he couldn't remember why they had been fighting, what had started the war. And now there were none. The last two gone. Dying on their last battlefield._

"Jim. Jim, damnit! Breathe!" McCoy's voice was close and he could feel his friend's hands carefully and frantically tending him, but he was drifting away, feeling less of his body and the pain. Taking his last breath as his lungs stopped.


	9. Chapter 9

_I don't want to die._

Spock stumbled as he walked down the corridor. The unexpected words had entered his mind with startling clarity, reverberating inside his head and leaving his body shaken.

"Are you all right, sir?" Ensign Rigs asked, suddenly appearing next to him with a very alarmed expression. It was Rigs first space tour and, while competent, the young human tended to become too involved in the events surrounding him.

Spock straightened and disciplined his expression, pushing aside the desperate emotions that throbbed and echoed within him. "I am fully functioning, Ensign. Thank you."

The young Ensign hesitated a moment, but Spock's well practiced stoic expression had the effect on the man that he'd hoped. Rigs nodded and moved on. Alone in the corridor, Spock cautiously searched his mind for the emotion mental touch that had penetrated his mental shields, wondering where the attack had come from. But it wasn't an attack. And it wasn't unfamiliar.

He recognized the touch that reverberated with the energy and uniqueness of Jim Kirk, that intensity of emotion and intellect, passion and analytics that defined his captain. In the thread of the psychic bond, he heard the plea he'd heard before in the warp chamber as Jim's body succumbed to radiation.

 _I'm scared, Spock_.

A cold block settled in the pit of his stomach as memories stirred. He had felt there was something wrong. Now he understood that what he'd sensed in the link was Kirk's failing life source, his tenuous hold to remain in this plane of existence, and his desire to connect to … someone. Like Pike, reaching out without success and settling into an empty blackness. He knew this emotion. He'd become too familiar with it since joining Starfleet.

Death.

"Sir?"

Spock's vision cleared as he brought himself back to the present and saw Dr. M'Benga standing a meter away with a medical scanner poised carefully in his hand.

"Can you hear me?" M'Benga asked.

"My hearing is excellent, Doctor. How can I help you?"

M'Benga settled his shoulders as his concerned expression eased. "I thought I could help you. Ensign Rigs says you looked about to faint."

Spock's eyebrows shot up. "Vulcans are biologically incapable of fainting, as you should know, doctor."

"It's an expression, Mr. Spock. A human expression."

Spock did not respond, but waited for M'Benga to continue.

"You're not going to let me examine you, are you?" M'Benga asked.

"It would illogical to waste your time, doctor. As you can see, I a—"

"I know. You're fully functioning. Rigs told me." M'Benga stepped back and lowered his scanner. "Listen, Mr. Spock—"

The ship-wide comm whistled. "Mr. Spock to the bridge."

M'Benga made a face. "Saved by the whistle."

"Acknowledged." With a brief nod of his head, Spock dismissed the doctor and made his way to the bridge. Whether the _Lexington_ had arrived or not, _Enterprise_ was returning to Outpost Six. And to Kirk.

 _For a long time, he lay on the battlefield, his body decomposing. The once fine threads of his clothes deteriorated, frayed and disappeared in the constantly blowing winds. He watched the process with fascination as the elements ate away at his flesh, shrinking his body into a mass of unrecognizable parts. Once the wind stopped, the rain poured down, beating his corpse into the ground until only a few bones peeked out from the soil. And then, finally, his body disappeared altogether, buried beneath layers of soil and waste. It had taken years for his body to find its final resting place meters below the surface, but he watched it all in a matter of seconds._

 _His view expanded until he could see the oceans and lands in-between. The planet bore the scars of decades of battles. It was the first thing the inhabitants had destroyed. It seemed fitting that they, too, should perish. From a scorched soil to grey clouds, the planet rested. And then flora began to cover the surface again, taking its nutrition from the decomposing bodies it had absorbed. Soon, visitors arrived, trying to colonize, explore. But they too moved on as the planet hungrily began feasting on them._

 _There was no fear in him as he witnessed the evolution. He was part of it._

McCoy closed his eyes and pressed his back against the wall of the scrub room, letting the solid surface take his weight. Just beneath the hardness was a faint thrumming, like a steady pulse pushing against his skin. _Bradbury_ was in orbit, not in warp, but the engines still hummed, keeping the ship alive. They were louder than those on the _Enterprise_ , even at rest. While Bradbury was fully functional, it was hardly state-of-the-art. _Enterprise_ had been the last commissioned starship and, consequently, it was equipped with the latest technology. It had taken McCoy a few minutes to get accustomed to the surgical suite.

The hiss of a door sounded, followed closely by an exaggerated groan, as someone intruded upon his peace. He opened his eyes as Dr. Janke pulled off his surgical gown.

"Christ, it's been a hell of a week," Janke said, stretching his back. He was older than McCoy by a good fifteen years, judging by the salt and pepper hair. He'd been a ship's surgeon for more than a decade, every year now clearly visible on his exhausted face. "You did good work in there."

McCoy didn't acknowledge the compliment. He and Janke had spent hours in surgery with Jim. Janke had concentrated on Jim's torn knee, while McCoy focused on clearing the fluid from Jim's lungs. It had been a battle from the moment they'd wheeled Jim into surgery. It was still a battle.

"Don't see knees torn up like that very often," Janke continued. "But he should be walking in a few days. Damn lucky. How in the hell did he manage to get a tree root through his knee anyway?"

"Just lucky, I guess," McCoy said flatly.

"Hate to be around him when he wasn't lucky."

The door hissed open again and Captain Franklin stepped in, unannounced. He took a brief second to survey the room and seemed uncertain as whom to approach. Finally, he simply asked of the room, "How's Captain Kirk?"

"Still breathing," Janke volunteered.

Franklin scowled. "Will he make it?"

"I don't know how he's made it this far," Janke said, turning to wash his hands. "Man was technically dead when we started cutting."

Franklin nodded with a grunt. "Kirk's got a reputation of overcoming death." He turned to McCoy who had kept his back pressed against the wall, watching the exchange. " _Enterprise_ is on her way. I suspect Commander Spock will want a more detailed report."

 _It's about goddamn time._ Everyone had left them on the Outpost and suddenly they were tripping over themselves to help. Not that it did Jim any good. He still couldn't breathe.

"We've got a crew down there relieving _Enterprise_ in the rescue effort, but it doesn't look optimistic," Franklin continued. "We're also collecting the deceased and we'll finish processing them."

McCoy nodded. He needed to take a shower, check on the other patients, but damnit, he didn't want to move.

Franklin stood in place for a moment longer, maybe waiting for McCoy to speak, or move, or for Janke to volunteer something. Neither man spoke. Finally, Franklin seemed to give up and he nodded to the men. "Keep me informed."

After he left, Janke snorted, scrubbing his hands in an old-fashion manner. The oversized sink used pressure and a disinfectant to sterilize; Janke must have altered the wash area to accommodate his preference. "You gonna just hold up that wall? Or do I need to call an orderly?"

He didn't care what Janke did. The sterile, recycled air of _Bradbury_ was cool and dry and should have revived him. Instead, he found it confining, manufactured, lifeless.

Janke craned his neck and with a sharp look, sized up McCoy. "Should I be worrying about you?"

"Would it help?"

Janke snorted loudly and turned back. "You did all you can for Kirk. He's on full life-support and not going anywhere. Shower and get some rest. I'll watch Kirk."

Reluctantly, McCoy pushed away from the wall. "Thanks, but I better stay."

There were two more shuttles that had arrived since he'd been in surgery. He was still CMO and responsible for the wellbeing of the scientists … and Jim.

"The Stetins should work," Janke said, referring to the medication they were trying, medication that promised to clear Jim's lungs. "He just needs time."

McCoy nodded, momentarily mesmerized by Janke's scrubbing technique. "Jim has a way of throwing in some surprises, when it comes to medications."

Janke looked up briefly when McCoy used Kirk's first name. "Suit yourself."

Despite his resolve to do otherwise, he headed for the shower. Jim was being settled into the ICU and he knew he had enough time to wash and change into a fresh uniform without compromising his patient's care.

By the time he entered the ICU, he was feeling somewhat more refreshed. It was the first time he'd scrubbed off the layers of sweat since landing on the Outpost. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed a sonic shower or how accustomed he'd become to the earthy smell of the planet. Hair still damp, he approached Jim's bed in the ICU, seeing Chapel in the small alcove.

"You should be resting," he told Chapel as stopped at the foot of the bed. They'd fought to keep Kirk alive on the last leg of the flight, intubating him and inserting another drain. There were only so many things they could do to keep him breathing and they'd pushed the limit. "You earned it."

"So did you." She'd been kept from assisting with the surgery by more experienced nurses, so she'd had time to shower and change into a fresh uniform, one from the _Bradbury's_ commissary. Cleaned up, and in the artificial light, she appeared years younger. She didn't have a PADD, nor did she seem to be working. She merely stood by the bed, watching Jim.

McCoy studied the monitor above Jim's bed. _Bradbury_ was older than _Enterprise_ and the Medbay lacked the newest equipment and layout that _Enterprise_ had, but the monitors were new and familiar, displaying Jim's vitals. A bouquet of IV solutions were suspended to left of the bed, making the area appear small and crowded. A tube was inserted in Jim's mouth to help him breathe. His face was an unhealthy white, and his body was unnaturally still. Somewhere beneath the light blanket was a mobilizer for his injured knee. It buzzed softly as the regenerator accelerated the healing process.

"He's not doing too well," Chapel said quietly.

McCoy spared her a quick glance. She wasn't studying the monitor and making a medical diagnosis, but rather studying Jim with concern. He saw her fingers twisting together, much like the movements of a fretful mother. "His fluid output has decreased."

Silence, except for the sounds of the sophisticated medical equipment surrounding Jim, filled the small space.

Finally, Christine sighed, then said on a more hopeful note, "Maybe he'll be better now that we're on the ship."

He turned his attention from her back to Jim. "Maybe." He stepped to the side of the bed and examined the single drain on the left side of Jim's chest. The monitor told him that Jim's lung capacity was only sixty-five percent and that the respirator was doing all the work.

Another nurse entered the area, pushing past Chapel. "You shouldn't be here," the nurse said, as she began to check the IVs.

Chapel looked at McCoy. The _Bradbury_ medical staff was experienced and knowledgeable, more than capable of taking care of Jim and the scientists, but Chapel had been with the scientists for months. She'd earned her place in the room. "Why don't you check on the others," McCoy told Chapel.

With reluctance, she left. Another nurse entered.

"Doctor McCoy. We've received a communication from _Enterprise._ Commander Spock is requesting an immediate status report on Captain Kirk."

He nodded to the nurse and pulled the blanket up to cover Kirk. There wasn't anything more he could do for Jim right now. The medications had to start working and Jim had to start breathing on his own. He walked out of the small alcove to the central desk and sat down to write his report.

Two hours later he stepped away from the desk. His report was on its way to Spock and Spock was on his way to _Bradbury_. Everything was in motion except Kirk, who seemed to be in limbo. McCoy enter the area where Kirk lay. He'd been monitoring his friend's condition from the desk. There'd been no change. A nurse stood near the bed, making notes on a chart. She glanced up as he walked in and nodded to him. He pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down, waiting for the nurse to finish. When he was alone with Kirk, he took the time to watch the young man, noting that his hair had lost some of the summer blond that had always been present on Earth. They'd been in space for months and the sun kissed locks were dull with sweat and lack of sunlight. He reached out and pushed some of the hair off the hot forehead.

"You're a pain in the ass, you now that?" he said softly.

That usually produced a wry look, but this time his words had no effect on Jim. into his lungs. It was poor company. There was nothing comforting about the mechanical sound. If anything, it lent a layer of anxiety. He was a physician and understood the gravity of the situation. It was uncommon to place a patient on a ventilator. Medicine had come far. Most of the time, medications and advance treatments would do the trick. Cellular regeneration. Pulmonary treatments. Laser surgery. Stasis chambers. There were dozens of options to keep a patient breathing without the invasive method they chosen. Hell, he'd even brought Jim back from the dead. And for what?

"Don't you dare make me break in a new captain."

Kirk remained unmoving and unresponsive.

He stretched his neck, pulling on the tight muscles, and closed his eyes, letting his back rest against the solid support of the chair. He must have fallen asleep. His head jerked up as his chin hit his chest, galvanizing his body into alertness. He was still sitting in the chair next to Jim's bed. The lights had been dimmed slightly, but he had no idea how much time had passed. The sound of the ventilator filtered through his muddled thoughts, instantly pulling him back to reality. His eyes immediately sought the monitor as he sat up straighter, forcing his body to wake fully and into doctor mode. Jim's vitals were still low and the ventilator indicated that he hadn't gained any ground, but his temperature had dropped. He rubbed his eyes.

 _I should have taken Janke up on that bed._

How did they get here? How did they get from a rescue, to a simple knee injury to this – full on life support?

"Nothing's simple with you, is it, Jim?"

"I heard that's his charm."

His head spun around at the sound of the female voice. Char stood easily just inside the area of Jim's bed. She'd changed into a casual orange tunic and form-fitting dark pants. The fabric showed off her curves, hugging her in all the right places. Showered and rested with her hair flowing free, she looked younger than he remembered. But it was almost impossible to tell with Betazoids. Their skin didn't wrinkle and map like humans' did, but remained a pristine, smooth alabaster well into their seventies.

"When was the last time you slept?" she asked casually.

"Depends on your definition." He studied her. It was difficult not to look at her without remembering how she looked naked, the softness of her skin. Taking in a breath, he caught her scent and felt a sudden rush of heat to his loins.

One corner of Char's mouth curled seductively as she he stared him down.

He scowled, pulling a mask on and pushing his worn body out of the chair. Stepping over to Jim, he checked the fluid output.

"How's he doing?" she asked quietly, moving closer to the bed.

"His temp is down," he said concentrating on the output indicator. "And he's producing less fluid." He looked up to study Jim. So why wasn't Jim awake?

"He's aware of us," she said.

He looked sharply at her. She was staring at Jim with a soft, concentrated expression.

"Are you sure?" He looked back at Jim. There was no indication of consciousness in the pale, still face. Long lashes fanned out over bruised skin. Not even a flutter or shift of the eyes beneath bruised lids. The tube in his mouth was taped to the side of his cheek, his lips bloodless and unmoving. He was deeply unconscious.

"He's aware, but only dimly." She stepped closer, never taking her eyes from him. "He's someplace … in-between."

"In-between?" He looked at her. "In-between where?"

She met McCoy's gaze. "In-between the past and the presence." Her eyes glazed. "He's …."

In an instant, the blood drained from her face and her eyes rolled back as she collapsed.


	10. Chapter 10

McCoy stood in the morgue on the _Bradbury_ , staring at the wall of small compartments that held the 200 plus scientists the _Enterprise_ crew had dug out of the ruins on Outpost Six. The _Bradbury_ crew had finished the processing, cataloged and tagged each member. They were just numbers now, printed in neat script on the compartment box, one indistinguishable from the other.

Death, he thought bleakly, the great equalizer.

He didn't know why he was here. He'd been on his way to his temporary quarters to get some much-needed rest, but found himself in the morgue instead. The lights in the room were appropriately dim, as if it were profane to shine light on the dead. Maybe it was an apology. He could imagine the Starfleet engineers discussing the mechanics of the morgue – show some respect, no one wants to see the dead lined up like digital tiles from floor to ceiling, let the poor bastards rest in peace. But McCoy knew the truth: Shining light on the dead was not good for morale.

Dumb asses.

He stared at the wall and the small compartments that held the scientists. It could have been worse, he surmised. He'd seen worse, after Admiral Marcus had gotten through with the _Enterprise_. They'd filled a room in Fleet General with their casualties.

He let out a breath and it echoed in the room. Another thing the engineers constructed – soundproofing. Why was it people wanted it to be silent around the dead? What was it that twentieth century poet wrote? " _Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light"._ Had the scientists raged? He remembered Scotty telling him that Jim had simply stopped breathing. He had wanted to offer McCoy some comfort, making it sound as if Jim had had a peaceful death. He knew better. Spock had raged for both of them.

"This is morose," Jim had once told him. They were standing in the academy morgue. McCoy had been taking a rotation in forensics when Jim had stopped by.

He'd looked up from the table and the Andorian he'd been examining. Jim was twenty-three years old then and looked impossibly young standing among the dead. "No more morose than anything else we do in medical."

Jim stared at him. "That not exactly a ringing endorsement to of your profession, Bones."

"I wasn't trying to endorse it. And stop calling me that."

He closed his eyes. That conversation seemed like a hundred years ago. Could it only have been less than five? Fuck it. He wasn't going to go there. He needed to go to bed. Jim had stabilized, though he was still critical. _Enterprise_ was finally only a few hours out and Char was resting in her quarters.

"It happens," she'd said as she revived, sitting up in the diagnostic bed. "I don't need to stay. I'm fully recovered.

And she was right. There was no evidence of a health issue. All her vitals were good.

"Mind explaining what happened?" McCoy had asked.

She had run a hand through her hair, pulling it away from her face. Although recovered, she had appeared tired. "Just a psychic backlash."

He had frowned, studying her closely.

"I got too close," she had said. As if that had explained everything.

He watched her as she had slid off the bed and tested her balance.

"You said he was in-between," he had said in a low voice, watching her carefully.

She had looked at him, a slight pleat between her brows. "It could be a dream. Humans get pulled into vivid images when they are traumatized. They can seem … real. I opened myself up. I shouldn't have done that."

They'd left it at that. He'd released her to her quarters an hour later and returned to his other patients. Janke had come by and finally thrown him out of Sickbay.

He opened his eyes and looked around the morgue again. There was nothing here for him. Rubbing his eyes, he turned and left. It took longer than he expected to find his quarters. _Bradbury_ was laid out differently and the corridors intersected at intervals, creating a dizzying maze. A yeoman had to give him directions and when he finally entered the small cabin he'd been assigned; his mood had darkened further.

It was half the size of his quarters on _Enterprise_ and had no external view. The layout was simple, with a Starfleet issue bed, nightstand and plain walls. On the far end of the room was a narrow door with a faint light showing at the bottom. The head. At least it had its own facilities. He'd heard about some of the other ships, where guests shared bathrooms.

"It's about time you arrived," Char said.

McCoy spun around, startled. Char gracefully separated herself from the wall, where she'd been standing, closing the distance between the two of them.

"Shouldn't you be rest—"

Her mouth on his silenced his question. She pressed her body close, letting him feel her. Pulling her mouth away only enough to speak, she said, "I'm rested."

She was eagerly pressing against his groin. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her clothes. Blood rushed to his cock as he felt himself grow hard. For a moment, he resisted. He'd just come from the ICU and the morgue. He smelled of sickness and antiseptic. There were a dozen reasons why he should push her away, but he couldn't think of a single one that mattered enough to make him stop. He could only feel. She tilted her hips, causing the right kind of friction against his groin.

With a soft growl, he roughly pulled her hips into his and crushed his mouth to hers until she groaned. She was removing her clothes before their lips separated, frantic to feel skin on skin. He matched her moves and soon they were naked in front of each other. They stood that way for seconds, each drinking in the sight of the other like a potent concoction. Char's eyes drifted the length of his body, resting on his half-hard cock. The corner of her mouth lifted as her gaze flicked back to his. His mouth tightened and he breathed heavily through his nose, waiting for her to make the first move.

She did. Moving to the bed, she crawled on top of the soft mattress, giving him a view of her perfect ass, as she raised it provocatively in the air before sliding like cat onto the bed. Stretched out, she was a vision of smooth skin and well-toned muscles. She rolled onto her back and opened her legs.

Sex with a Betazoid was a little like a chess tournament, each participant trying to outmatch the other's moves. Sex was long and torturous. Each time McCoy was about to climax, she pulled back, bringing him back down again and making his nerves sing like a tightly strung violin. By the time he'd entered her, his head was buzzing and his nerves were on fire. As he finally got his release, her heard her cry out, as well. He remembered falling to her side onto the mattress, breathing heavily and not wanting to let go of her as darkness claimed him.

The next thing he knew, someone was shaking him out of a deep sleep. Scowling, he grumbled under his breath even as he struggled to wake. Doctors never got to sleep on their own schedule. He'd trained himself to wake in an instant years ago. But he was having difficulty pulling away from the smooth warmth that hugged his side.

"Someone wants you," Char whispered, her voice next to his ear.

He suddenly realized she was naked against him, warm and soft. Rolling on his back, he looked up at her. Her hair was tussled and her cheeks were still flushed. "All you had to do was ask."

He reached for her, but she stopped him. And then he heard it: A faint chime interrupting the quiet.

"Someone at the door," she said.

He frowned, recognizing the sound as the door chime. _You've got to be kidding me?_ If Jim had taken a turn for the worse, he would have been commed. A visitor meant something else entirely. With a sigh of frustration, he swung out of bed, grabbing his pants and crawling into them. Somebody better be on fire, he thought as he walked toward the door.

"Enter," he said harshly.

The door slid open, spilling the corridor light into the darkness. Blinking against the brightness, he fought to adjust his vision. But he didn't need long. The figure outside his cabin was only too recognizable.

"What the hell are you doing here, Spock?"

The Vulcan's eyebrows rose.

McCoy was about to let him in when he remembered Char. Half-glancing back, he stepped out into the corridor, letting the door slid shut behind him. Standing barefoot and bare chested in the empty corridor, the lights were too bright, burning into his skull and making him feel exposed. He rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Ten hundred hours, ship's standard time," Spock replied without hesitation.

Ten o'clock. He'd been sleeping for over six hours. "Why in the hell didn't somebody page me?" He stepped back into his cabin without waiting for a response.

As McCoy began to dress, Char sat up, pulling the blanket close with a new-found modesty.

"Good morning," she said lightly.

Momentarily taken aback by her greeting, he realized she wasn't looking at him. Turning for confirmation, he saw Spock standing nonchalantly in the center of the room. "Who the hell invited you in? Get out!"

Vulcans never appeared embarrassed and neither did Spock. He inclined his head once and left.

"Everything all right?" Char asked as he dressed.

" _Enterprise_ has arrived. Spock probably wants a report." He sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots.

She took advantage of his position and nuzzled his neck. "Too bad," she purred.

He turned his head to kiss her. "I'll be back."

Spock was waiting in the corridor as he left the cabin.

"Okay, Spock, what's the big emergency?" he asked crossly as they walked down the corridor to the turbo lift.

"The captain is in critical condition."

"I'm aware. I also know he's stable. So, why are you hunting me down? Shouldn't you be on the outpost?"

Spock remained in step with him, unfazed by his verbal assault. "We have beamed the last of the crew on board."

He stopped and turned to Spock. "Why the hell would you do that? There are still dozens of scientists trapped down there."

The Vulcan's face was unreadable. "Doctor, the entire ruins have sunken another thirty meters into the ground. There are no survivors to rescue."

He felt the blood drain from his face. Was it possible? "When did this happen?"

"Four hours ago. I have recalled the crew. _Bradbury_ will take the surviving scientists to Starbase 11 and _Enterprise_ will remain behind. I had thought you would want to oversee Captain Kirk's transfer to _Enterprise_ before _Bradbury_ leaves orbit."

Anger rose in him. "Why the hell didn't you say that in the first place?"

When they entered Sickbay, McCoy immediately went to the small area where Kirk lay. The curtain was pulled back and as he approached he was surprised to see that the ventilator had been removed. Kirk was apparently breathing on his own. The head of the bed had been inclined slightly, and his eyes were open. And he was looking at Christine Chapel, who stood over him … holding his hand.

Kirk was aware of voices around him. He opened his eyes, but couldn't focus. Lights and blurry images floated in and out of his view. The voices were soft, but muffled and distorted. Or maybe it was his brain that was muffled. His chest hurt and he was acutely aware of something down his throat. The images returned. Hands were on him, gentle and demanding. He tried to push them away, but they resisted, insistent. Moments later, the object that had filled his throat was pulled out.

He coughed and gagged as it slid free. Though he could not see, he felt a wave of dizziness overtake him. More voices. More hands. He wanted none of it. He pushed them away as darkness crowded in and he thankfully surrendered to it.

When he opened his eyes again, he could see. His mouth was dry and his throat was sore. He kept working his tongue and jaw, swallowing past the dry ache. Where was he? He was partially inclined and saw what looked like a medical area, but not one of _Enterprise's_. Too crowded. Rolling his head along the pillow, he knew he was in a med bay somewhere. A Starbase? He couldn't feel the hum of engines. He could only feel the firing of his nerves in a body that felt dull and uncooperative, as if someone or something had pummeled him in his sleep.

How long had been out? He swallowed again. Damn, his throat hurt. It took an effort to drag his hand up to his throat. He felt the pinch of the IV in his arm as he moved, but it was his chest that made its complaints known as his arm rested on fragile ribs. Each breath caused a stab of pain on his right side. Part of him wanted to go back to sleep; part of him wanted to demand an explanation. Where was Bones?

Suddenly, a figure appeared in his line of sight. He immediately recognized Christine Chapel. She was staring at him with an intensity that alarmed him. How long had she been there?

"Hello," she said simply. The soft greeting fell into the silence like a forbidden word, lingering in the space between them.

"He—" Pain seized his throat. Fuck! He closed his eyes and tried to swallow past the dryness, his fingers clutching at his throat.

"Here," she said, gently taking his hand away.

He opened his eyes and saw she held a thin wafer.

"It'll soothe your throat," she explained, as she held it close to his lips. "You can't have water yet."

He opened his mouth and she dropped the wafer in. It dissolved immediately, coating his throat as he swallowed. "Thank you," he managed to say in a raspy voice.

"You're welcome."

"Where am I?"

" _Bradbury_ medical bay. You … you've been sick."

She looked scared. He couldn't recall ever seeing her scared. Furious. Compassionate. Confused. But never scared.

"Maybe I should be consoling you." he said lightly, trying to shift her serious expression.

She scowled. "Don't make a joke. You almost died."

"Almost." It was just a whisper. Did she know he'd died once? That his crew had carried his lifeless body out of the warp core?

"You think you're so damn indestructible? You stopped breathing."

The memory of his last breath was still startlingly clear and, if he were truthful with himself, frightening. He remembered how easily his life had just…stopped. Both times. As if a switch had been flicked without warning. He hadn't struggled against it, just let it happen.

"Jim …."

A sudden flush of heat rose through him as the room tipped. He closed his eyes, grateful for the opportunity to shield his emotions. This wasn't the conversation he wanted to have with her. Bad enough Bones was always digging in that spot, trying to discover what he'd buried. When he opened his eyes again he realized two things: she wasn't angry anymore, and she was still holding his hand. Tightly.

"You take too many risks," she said quietly.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward. "This from a woman who … who retreated to the … outer frontier."

She blushed slightly, but didn't look away. "I go where the need is."

"So do I." His chest hurt and talking made it worse. "Now what do … we do?"

She thought for a moment. "Truce?"

He nodded. Another wave of dizziness distorted his vision. Something sharp tugged at his side, taking his breath. Chapel suddenly released his hand, as he struggled to right the world spinning around him. Another figure came into view before he realized she was gone.

"You shouldn't be talking," Bones said, staring down at him.

"Happy to … be breathing," he forced out.

Bones grunted and studied the panel above his head. "You did a damn good impersonation of a dead man." He dropped his gaze back down. "Barely got you to the ship on time."

It all came back to him in an instant – the battle and dying, the decades and centuries passing. … his decaying. Blood drained from his face, leaving him cold. He shivered.

Bones frowned, briefly looking up at the panel. "Are you in pain?"

His chest hurt and the effort of breathing was tiring him. It had hurt to breathe then, too. Lying on the wet ground, he could smell the peaty odor on the battlefield, the strange mix of blood, urine and soil. Why had they been fighting?

"Jim?"

Bones' image went out of focus. He could almost feel himself being pulled back to that time, to the desolation, fear and tenacity equally strong as he struggled to survive.

"Last battlefield," he whispered. And then wondered: "Why the last?"

Bones was silent for a moment, staring intently at him. For a moment, Kirk thought that his friend was going to answer his question, provide some clarity. But instead, Bones said, "I want you to get some rest. You're coming out of major surgery and need to recover."

That's why he hurt. And why his head was so muddled. His vision blurred again. Who unburied him? Moving against the pull of unconsciousness, he felt the aches come alive, morphing into real pain. His knee was stiff and painful, but wasn't causing nearly the agony he'd felt earlier. A sharp pinch in his chest, drew his attention. His hand moved toward the cause, but someone – Bones? – captured it in a firm grip before he could reach it.

His vision narrowed to a pinpoint of light.

In the distant corners of his mind, he felt the pull of the planet, the need to be a part of the soil, to be buried.

Then blackness claimed him.


	11. Chapter 11

McCoy looked at the data displaying on the monitor at his desk and swore under his breath. In one swift move, he grabbed his medical bag and stood, his feet already carrying him past the nursing station. He'd released Jim from Sickbay six hours earlier with the promise the Captain would rest.

"No work, Jim. I mean it," he'd directed of his friend before he'd locked a monitor around the young man's wrist.

"What's this?" Jim had asked, scowling at the thin band.

"Insurance. If your heartrate shows signs of stress and fatigue, I'll know about it."

McCoy stepped into the corridor with a firm grip on his medical case. He should have known that Jim wouldn't follow the simple instructions. After three days in Sickbay under McCoy's care, Jim had shown enough improvement to be released to his quarters, but he was not nearly well enough to return to duty. His lungs had not fully recovered and he still had trouble breathing. He needed to rest. And his vitals were telling McCoy he was doing anything but. If Spock was in Jim's quarters, he was going to lay into the Vulcan for violating his orders.

McCoy stepped into the turbo lift and let the doors close behind him. In the past few months, since leaving Earth, Spock had constantly been at Jim's side like a mother hen hovering over her chick, watchful and protective, especially when Jim was off the ship and exposed to more hazards. But Spock's newly protective mode had been further heightened since they'd transferred Jim from the _Bradbury_. McCoy had kicked Spock out of Sickbay more than once.

 _"_ _Out," he said to Spock who stood like an ancient, mythological figure over Kirk's sleeping form. "He's not going anywhere and you aren't doing any good by watching him. Besides, don't you have a ship to run?"_

 _Spock remained unresponsive to his diatribe, remaining watchful over Kirk. McCoy couldn't help but be reminded of another time, a year earlier, when he and Spock had stood near Kirk's bed, waiting for the young man to awaken after they'd used Khan's blood to bring him back to life. The circumstances had been drastically different, but McCoy bet the Vulcan was remembering that vigil, too._

 _He shifted his gaze to Kirk. The young man slept peacefully and deeply, his features pale and drawn. While no longer critical, he still looked ill and far too vulnerable._

 _McCoy sighed and turned his attention back to Spock. "Look, Spock, you can't stay here. The nurses don't need to be tripping over you to do their duty." When that didn't elicit a response, he said, "His lungs are clearer. We've removed the drainage tube and his fever is down. He's going to be all right."_

 _Pissed as hell, he wanted to add. But all right._

 _And that's when it struck him. "You're upset about what Jim said."_

 _"_ _That is a human emotion, Doctor." His words were a mere whisper. He wouldn't take his eyes off Kirk._

 _McCoy would normally have been happy to spar with Spock, poke at him a little, trying to find the soft spots the Vulcan refused to acknowledge. It was a professional challenge to McCoy to get Spock to connect to his human half. But now, the Vulcan looked vulnerable. Sad. And he didn't have the heart. Stepping closer to the bed, he said, "Jim doesn't like losing. Finding out he'd failed to rescue all those scientists … well, he doesn't like losing. It's nothing personal, you know that, right?"_

 _It took a moment for Spock to look at him. When he did, the doctor saw uncertainty in the black eyes, and maybe a little hope. It amazed McCoy that, despite being in a relationship with a human female, Spock still found human emotions confusing._

 _"_ _He's tired," McCoy added gently. "Give him some time."_

He pushed the memories aside as he approached Jim's door. His own mood hadn't been any better than Kirk's over the past few days. The transfer from the _Bradbury_ had gone smoothly, but Char had remained behind, following the rest of the outpost crew. He'd barely had time to say good-bye before the two ships departed. Not that he'd had any illusions they were going to have a relationship. Unless they'd been assigned to the same ship, a relationship was almost impossible to maintain. The best one could hope for was what he and Char had experienced: enjoying one another's intimacy without expectations. Still, it hurt when she left.

Tightening his grip on his medical bag, he entered Kirk's quarters without asking permission. Kirk stood a few meters from him in front of the small desk, dressed in a casual Starfleet regulation black off-duty shirt and shorts. An orthopedic brace was wrapped around his injured knee and he was favoring it, leaning his weight on his good leg. Tension etched his still pale features. He was in the middle of a step when he turned to glare at McCoy's unannounced presence.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" McCoy demanded.

Kirk's brows snapped together tightly. "Trying to have a private moment in my quarters."

McCoy stepped inside. "I told you to rest."

"You said no work." There wasn't much enthusiasm in Jim's words. As soon as he said them he began to limp the short distance to his sitting area. "I'm not working."

"Damnit, Jim," he said, following Jim, placing his medical case on a small table with a bang. "Can't I trust you for six hours? Don't answer that. Sit down."

"I'm not tired," Jim said flatly, but his tone indicated otherwise.

McCoy folded his arms across his chest and studied Jim. "Want to try telling that to someone who isn't immune to your bullshit?"

"What do you want, Bones?" he asked tiredly. He was listing a bit, unstable on his feet as he stood in the center of the area.

"To have a quiet afternoon and catch up on my reports, but you seem determined to want my attention." He noted Jim's pale face and uneven breathing. "Do I have to put you back in Sickbay?"

"I don't need Sickbay," Jim said with irritation.

"That's not what my instruments are telling me," he said, showing Jim the small scanner display.

Jim swayed slightly.

"Damnit, Jim, will you sit down before you fall down."

There was the barest hesitation before Jim took a shuddering breath and sat somewhat abruptly on the edge of the sofa, extending his injured leg with a wince. "Happy?"

He shot an incensed look at Jim as he reached for his medical case. "No, I'm not happy. I released you to your quarters to _rest_ , to cease to move, not pace your cabin like a caged cat." He snapped his case open. The monitor was showing elevated blood pressure and heart rate. "Did you even sleep at all?"

"I slept," Jim said flatly, as if to end any further discussion. He wouldn't look at McCoy who had drawn out a small scanner.

Passing it over Jim's chest, he scowled at the readout. He wanted to rail at Jim. A dozen thoughts fought to slip past his lips – words Jim had heard before under similar circumstances. Sometimes they struck a chord in the young man's head and he bent a little to McCoy's will. Sometimes Jim shut down completely and it was a battle of wills between the two that neither man won. He let out a short breath. "How's your breathing? Is your chest still sore?"

Jim shook his head.

Liar. McCoy didn't need his instruments to know that the lesions from the drainage tubes were still tender and that the pulmonary treatments Jim had undergone in the past two days were also causing discomfort. He dropped his gaze to the braced knee and was alarmed to see it swollen within the confines of the light brace. He pressed his lips together into a tight line. He should haul Jim into Sickbay, he thought angrily. Sedate him for a few days and let his body heal. But that wasn't going to solve whatever was eating away at Jim.

"Lie back," he instructed, reaching out to grip Jim's bicep and guide him to lie on the sofa. He met little resistance. Soon Jim was on his back, his head against the cushioned arm, but his right leg still off. McCoy supported the injured leg, lifting it to rest the length of the sofa. With a deft movement, McCoy released the brace and set it on the floor. His fingers gently probed the swollen tissue. It was hot to the touch. The inflammation could be just exertion and the fact that Jim had been on his feet for too long. Or it could be something more serious, if Jim was reacting to the new ligaments Janke put in.

"Is it painful?" he asked, flexing Jim's knee carefully, feeling for any unusual movements or grating within the knee.

Jim grunted and braced himself slightly. "It is when you do that."

He kept his hands steady, supporting Jim's leg. The knee was stiff and he could feel the resistance when he applied pressure, testing Jim's range of motion, but that would be normal considering the knee had undergone a complete reconstruction only a few days ago. "It's pretty swollen."

Jim said nothing, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his lips compressed in a thin line.

McCoy stood and walked to the replicator, ordering an ice pack. He returned to the sofa and carefully placed the thin pack on Jim's swollen knee. "I've programmed it for thirty minutes of cold, followed by ten minutes at room temperature, with that pattern repeating until the pack is removed."

The cold on the hot and swollen joint elicited a sharp hiss from Jim, drawing him out of his introspection. Straining upward, he tried to prop himself on his elbows, but soon abandoned the attempt, pressing a protective hand to his chest before easing back onto the sofa cushions with a grimace.

McCoy observed it all in silence. Grabbing a large pillow, he tucked it under the injured leg. "Keep your leg elevated. No more pacing. I mean it, Jim. We've got to get the swelling down. Unless you want surgery again." He turned to his medical case and loaded a hypo. Jim had his eyes closed when he knelt next to the sofa and pressed the instrument to the trapezius muscle at the base Jim's neck.

"What was that?" Jim demanded, his eyes snapping open.

"A mild painkiller and a small dose of tri-ox," he said, gently massaging the injection site. "Still dizzy?"

Jim looked away. "A little."

"Just let the medication work for a while." He retrieved his small scanner and took another reading. Satisfied, he put the scanner away and shut his medical case. Rising from the floor, he stepped back into a guest chair and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. He studied Jim for a long moment. Despite his pale and pain-etched face, Jim looked remarkably fit. Though he'd lost a few kilos of weight, his body was still strong and well-toned. The shock of blond hair accentuated Jim's pallor, and the blue eyes, focused now on the ceiling, seemed brilliant and luminous. And underlying it all was a tense stillness – an introspectiveness – that McCoy had learned to distrust. "Want to tell me what's got you so worked up?"

"Not particularly."

He was being honest anyway, McCoy thought. "You still pissed at Spock? Or did the two of you make up?"

"I wasn't pissed at him."

"Then what? Why haven't we left the outpost yet? Spock said you ordered the ship to remain in orbit." He scrutinized Jim's expression, which revealed nothing. "Why are we staying? Everyone has been evacuated from the surface, so there's nothing more to do there."

"Not everyone."

McCoy narrowed his gaze. Was that what was bothering Jim? A sense of failed duty? Or was it more? And then suddenly he knew why they hadn't left. "Goddamn it, Jim. That planet swallowed an entire compound. It almost swallowed you, and you want to go back down there? For what?"

"Our mission –"

"Our mission was to rescue the scientists. We've done that. Put some damn warning buoys up and let's move on."

Jim struggled into a sitting position, wincing as he levered himself off the cushions. He closed his eyes for a moment as his breath hitched. When he finally opened his eyes to stare at McCoy, a scowl darkened his face. "We didn't rescue anybody. And we're not leaving until I say so."

McCoy stared at him intensely, waiting until the younger man's eyes fluttered closed and he dropped limply to the cushions.

"What'd you give me," he mumbled, not opening his eyes. A few seconds later, he was fast asleep.

McCoy remained unmoving, watching the slight rise and fall of Jim's chest that indicated steady breathing. The muscles in Jim's face had relaxed, smoothing out the frown between his thick brows. The monitor around Jim's wrist blinked peacefully.

Kirk opened his eyes and realized he'd fallen asleep. And that he'd slept without dreaming. He was in his quarters and someone had dimmed the lights and put a thin blanket over him. His mouth was dry and his limbs felt heavy and torpid. He immediately recognized the familiar symptoms of a sedative hangover.

Mild painkiller, my ass.

He put a hand to his head and pushed his fingers through his damp hair. The t-shirt he wore was damp with sweat, as well, and he felt stiff and lethargic.

"Computer, time."

 _"_ _Ship's time is 0532."_

He'd slept the entire night. With a grunt, he sat up, feeling the warning pull on his injured leg. He put a hand on the knee, still buried under the blanket. It felt achy but not painful. Tossing the blanket aside, he saw that the ice pack had fallen off during the night and that his knee was still swollen and free of the brace. With care, he lowered his leg off the sofa and adjusted to the new position, taking a moment to settle his breathing. The pulmonary treatments he'd endured were still sharp in his memory and he wanted to avoid any more in the future. An ache deep in his chest warned him not to push his luck. He caught sight of the monitor on his wrist and knew that his privacy was not his own. Bones would soon be by for his morning rounds.

He stood with effort, feeling his stiff muscles complain with the movement. A wave of dizziness hit him just as he straightened his spine. He reached out instinctively for support, but the moment passed quickly and the room stabilized. All his weight was on his left leg and it took some effort and skill to limp the short distance to the head. By the time he arrived, his knee was throbbing and he was out of breath.

As much as he wanted to stay in the shower and let the hot sonic pummel his aching muscles, his knee wouldn't allow it. It had gone from achy to throbbing to outright pain by the time he exited the shower. Leaning heavily against the sink, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

"Jesus." Soft bruises colored the pale skin beneath his eyes. He looked drawn and stressed, faded and transparent. This is what death looks like, he thought suddenly, then chided himself for the idea.

He wasn't dead.

A cold block settled in his stomach. Instantly, his mouth dried. Setting his jaw, he turned away from the mirror and wrapped a towel around his waist, stepping out of the head. His right hand was firmly gripping the door jamb to keep from falling over. His injured and unprotected knee barely held his weight and he didn't trust the joint to not collapse beneath him.

I should have worn the brace, he thought in retrospect

The lights in his cabin had been increased, but he didn't need the added light to see Bones – arms crossed and relaxed – leaning his hips against the edge of the bed, waiting patiently for his exit from the head, as if they'd had an appointment.

"Don't you ever knock?" Kirk asked, shooting him a glaring glance as he limped to his dresser. Christ, his knee was really singing to him now and he was certain the monitor on his wrist was revealing the same.

"Thought you'd like some company," Bones said casually.

But Kirk saw the medical case on the nightstand and knew Bones' visit wasn't social. Nothing short of an urgent medical situation got Bones out of bed before 0600. Someone had arranged a fresh set of clothes for him and laid them on the dresser. He grabbed them in one swoop and limped to the bed. Bones moved out of his way, giving him room and studying him as if he were a specimen in a lab experiment. He dropped the towel and stepped into his gray briefs, leaning against the bed to keep his weight off his right leg. By the time he crawled into his shorts, he was gritting his teeth against the pain in his knee. Awkwardly, he sat on the bed, letting his leg dangle, which only increased the pain. Through it all, Bones had stood by, silently watching. Or so he thought. As he rested on the bed, catching his breath and gathering his strength to lift his leg, Bones appeared in front of him with the discarded brace in his hand.

"Here," Bones said and carefully supported Kirk's leg, lifting it to lie on the bed and giving Kirk a moment to find a comfortable position.

"Thanks," he said tightly, resisting the urge to rub his knee.

Bones said nothing as he locked the brace in place and set an ice pack, that had appeared out of nowhere, on his knee. Then he looked at Kirk and asked, "How are feeling?"

"Sedated."

Bones had the best poker face he'd ever seen, with only the hazel eyes sharp and discerning. There was no indication on his friend's face of what he thought, only a disciplined, undecipherable expression. Typical doctor.

"How about some breakfast?" Bones asked quietly.

It really wasn't a question, because Kirk knew there was only one answer. Sure enough, Bones didn't wait for a reply, but went to the replicator and produced a small tray. Setting it in front of him, he noticed a small glass of milk and a cup of hot coffee. The pungent aroma, woke him up. Just as he reached for the steaming brew, Bones snatched it off the tray. "Help yourself, Bones."

"It wasn't for you," he said unapologetically, sipping from the cup. "If I'm going to make house calls before mess, I need coffee."

"There's a solution to that problem," Kirk said sarcastically, eyeing the contents on the tray.

"Yeah, you could have slept longer." He took a satisfying mouthful of coffee and swallowed, pulling the cup away to look at it. "You know, I actually missed _Enterprise_ coffee. I guess it's true what they say about not knowing what you have until it's gone."

"I'll remind you of that in another six months." He wasn't hungry and the eggs Bones had ordered looked unappealing. He poked at them unenthusiastically. His head had begun to hurt and he stretched his neck to ease the pain.

"Eat up," Bones said, sipping his coffee with annoying pleasure, the hazel eyes scrutinizing him over the cup rim.

He took a fork full of eggs. They tasted better than they looked. After a few bites, he found Bones' attention unnerving. "Don't you have patients to see? Reports to file?"

"Yes, Jim. I do."

"Well, don't let me stop you." He leaned back against the pillows, feeling a familiar tightness in his chest. "I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself."

"It's not your capability I'm concerned about."

His heart was beating a little faster than he wanted, taking some of his breath. As he tried to slow his breathing, he remained relaxed against the pillows, meeting Bones' inscrutable stare with one of his own. Whatever Bones was thinking, it was locked behind the physician mask – the one that assessed, diagnosed and schemed.

"I've got nowhere to go, Jim," Bones said in a tone that was both infinity patient and utterly condescending.

He knew the only way to get Bones out of his quarters was to eat. With reluctance, he ate a few bites of the eggs and two pieces of fruit before setting down his fork and pushing the tray away. Bones must have been satisfied with his efforts, because he took the tray and set it on the dresser, leaving his empty cup of coffee, as well. Kirk watched as Bones opened his medical case.

The examination, however brief, was nearly unbearable with Kirk answering a slew of questions he was certain Bones already knew the answers to. Yes, he was short of breath. Yes, his chest felt tight. Yes, his knee hurt.

Finally, Bones stepped back. "Your blood pressure is up a little. I want you to stay in bed today. Keep your leg elevated."

"I've got a ship to run, Bones."

Bones had grabbed his PADD and his fingers were dancing across the screen. "Not today you don't."

Just like that. End of discussion.

"What am I supposed to do in my quarters all day?" He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. The ache in his chest was growing into a gnawing.

"Rest. Try meditation."

Kirk snorted.

Bones set the PADD aside. "I'll have a nurse come by in a few hours with an anti-inflammatory. And drink some water. I don't need to be treating you for dehydration."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, don't get out of bed." Bones looked at him with compassion. "You want something for the pain?"

He shook his head, annoyed that Bones knew. He always knew.

Bones moved to his medical case and snapped it shut. "Okay then. I'll be back this afternoon to see how you're doing."

Alone in his quarters, he relaxed for the first time in days, sinking back into the pillows. But soon he felt the walls move in on him, shrinking the space to the layout of a tomb. He shivered and shook away the image, crawling into the black shirt he'd left on the bed.

Don't go there, he thought. It was only a dream. Or the high fever Bones had told him he'd had. It wasn't real. None of it had been real.

The door buzz sounded.

"Come."

Yeoman Grady entered his quarters. He was older than Kirk by at least a decade and reminded Kirk of an eighteenth-century butler – devoid of humor, unflappable and the consummate professional. Kirk was Grady's fourth captain and it occurred to Kirk that the man was predisposed to be a captain's yeoman, which had never really seemed like a career to Kirk.

"Sir," Grady said, holding his place just inside the threshold.

While Grady and Kirk interreacted every day, Grady was rarely in Kirk's quarters when Kirk was there. Like any good assistant, Grady's work was seen, but the man himself was not. Most of their work was conducted on the bridge or in Kirk's ready room. Maybe the intimacy of seeing his captain resting in off-duty wear and looking less than fit made the man uncomfortable.

"Come in, Yeoman."

Grady nodded and immediately retrieved the breakfast tray, recycling it. He went about straightening up the quarters, something he did daily while Kirk was on duty. Fresh water was set next to the bed without a word. A quick trip into the head and a pass around the room and everything was in order. But instead of leaving, Grady approached the bed with an extra pillow.

"This might be more comfortable for your leg, sir."

"Thank you, Yeoman."

Grady carefully tucked the pillow under his injured knee and stepped back. "I've loaded the daily reports into your queue, sir. I thought you might like to review them."

Technically speaking, Spock was in charge, and the daily reports were his duty to review and sign, but making them available to Kirk was a kind gesture that made Kirk smile with appreciation. "Thank you. It'll give me something to do."

"I understand, sir."

Because the captain's yeoman knew everything that was happening on the ship, including McCoy's orders – which Bones no doubt pressed onto Grady the moment he'd released Kirk from Sickbay.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" Grady asked.

"No, Yeoman. You're dismissed."

With a nod of his head, Grady left. But Kirk wasn't alone long. Just as he began to doze, a nurse entered, interrupting his rest. He recognized her from Sickbay and recalled her record by memory. Like Grady, she seemed stalled at the threshold, reluctant to enter until he invited her. Carrying a small tray with medical supplies, she stepped into his sleeping area and was suddenly all business, wearing a well-trained mask and barely making eye contact with him, but he could see that she was nervous being in the captain's quarters and trying to hide it. She quickly examined his knee and administered the anti-inflammatory Bones had promised.

"Are you in any pain?" she asked at last.

"I'm fine, nurse. Thank you."

"I could get you some water or something to eat."

"That won't be necessary."

She shifted her weight uneasily. "If you need anything, let us know."

He was alone again and feeling the walls beginning to move in. He hadn't realized how silent his quarters could be, how isolated. But he rarely spent any length of time here. Most of his time was spent on the bridge and in engineering and other areas. He only used his quarters to sleep. The comforting and familiar hum of the engines was beneath him, all around him in fact, but it also seemed far away. For the first time since boarding _Enterprise_ , he did not feel a part of her.

To distract himself, he grabbed the PADD Grady had left on his nightstand and called up the daily reports. A ship in orbit still needed a lot of attention. The daily tasks and department reports were routine reading and gave him a sense of reassurance, reminding him of who and where he was. He settled into reading, feeling himself relax. Finally, he read the last report – Spock's report to Starfleet. As he read, his muscles tightened and a coldness settled in his bones. He played the vid attached, hoping to see something other than the evidence of what Spock had reported.

As he watched, he saw the planet's surface, the area where _Enterprise_ had set up a small compound, now disassembled and removed. Only trampled grass remained and even that was beginning to be restored. The vid expanded out to the ruins – a place the scientists had called home for two years – now completely untouched. When last Kirk had seen it, rubble stained the landscape, like a small hill of broken pieces. Now the ruins were gone and, if Spock's report was correct, sunken into the surface as if they never existed. Vegetation had begun to grow over the area, erasing any evidence that Starfleet had been there, burying the last of the scientists.

The planet had swallowed them. Just as it had swallowed Jim.


	12. Chapter 12

By the time McCoy entered his quarters, he had a full-on headache that stretched from the base of skull down to between his shoulder blades. Every time he turned his head, the muscles twisted and pulled like stale taffy under his skin. He tossed his medical case on the small table in his receiving area. The small space served as both office and relaxation area. A thin opaque partition separated it from his sleeping area. Not quite as roomy as Kirk's quarters, but nice enough.

He swept past the small room and headed for a shower, hoping the hot sonic would loosen his tension, which, thanks to Kirk, had only increased in the past hour.

"Being CMO isn't just about keeping the crew healthy," Pike had told him upon his promotion. "It's about keeping the captain healthy. You're the only one who has the authority to reign him in. Use that power wisely."

"Yes, sir," he'd said.

But Pike had pinned him with an unblinking stare. "I mean it. He's reckless as all hell. And he won't know when to stop."

He had recalled, at the time, that he'd thought Pike had been overreacting, even given Kirk's short, epic history in command. He'd thought that Pike had been overly protective, or overly cautious, and that the advice had been more of a fatherly warning. But McCoy had soon learned that everything Pike had warned him about was only too real. Keeping Kirk in check was a full-time job.

 _"_ _Where do you think you're going?" McCoy asked Kirk. He'd stopped by for an end of the shift visit, as promised. Only to find Kirk on his feet and dressed in his command yellow uniform top, agitated and restless. He'd left the black shorts on._

 _"_ _I'm going down to the planet."_

 _"_ _Like hell you are." He stood in front of the door, blocking any chance of Kirk exiting. "I haven't cleared you for duty."_

 _"_ _I'm going." He took a step forward._

 _"_ _Jim, you are_ _ **not**_ _going down to that planet. Spock said the entire complex has sunk beneath the surface, like the ground was quicksand. It's unsafe."_

 _Kirk stood a few meters from him. "Out of my way, Bones."_

 _McCoy felt his temper rise, like water set to a flash boil. He tightened his grip on the medical case and pressed his lips into a tight line. "I'm not going to fight you on this, Jim. I'll block your access if I have to_ _ **and**_ _confine you to Sickbay."_

 _There was only one other time McCoy had seen Kirk's temper unchecked when, as a cadet, Kirk had stood on the bridge and argued with Spock about turning the Enterprise around to pursue the Narada. Kirk had been out of control and undisciplined, dogmatic about the course they should take. He saw the same look on Kirk's face now as he watched the younger man's fists curl. There was no worry He wasn't worried about Kirk pushing past him. With his knee in a brace, and still weak and unsteady, he was no match for McCoy. But the added stress was not helping Jim's recovery._

 _"_ _Our mission—"_

 _"_ _Is over," he said a little too strongly, interrupting Kirk._

 _"_ _We're not leaving them!"_

 _He measured his voice and chose his next words carefully. "There's nothing to do down there. And no one to save." He looked at the dismay on Kirk's face and saw the almost physical conflict within his friend, as if he was being forced to choose between one life and another. "Jim, they're dead. There's no way to retrieve them. Let them rest in peace."_

 _Kirk's blue eyes darkened and his breath hitched in sharply as he pinned McCoy with an icy stare. "I'm not leaving them there to rot!" He swayed and pressed his arm to his chest._

 _In an instant, McCoy was at his side, gripping his arm. "You need to sit down._ _ **Now.**_ _"_

 _McCoy didn't wait for Kirk to comply with his orders, but quickly steered the man to the bed and ushered him to sit. Kirk's eyes were unfocused as McCoy guided him to lie back on the pillows. He retrieved a hypo and loaded it with Tri-ox, quickly pressing the instrument to the side of Kirk's neck. Within seconds, Kirk's eyes focused and awareness returned. His respirations were still shallow, but the oxygen-starved symptoms he knew Kirk was feeling had diminished. He conducted a quick medical exam while Kirk remained silent and still. When he was finished, he snapped his medical case shut and stepped back from the bed to study his friend. "Your lungs aren't healed yet, but I don't need to tell you that, do I? You're not ready for duty, Jim, and you're not ready for an away team."_

 _"_ _I'll wait," he said quietly, still slightly out of breath, but no less angry._

 _"_ _I suppose you will. You'll keep this ship in orbit and once I clear you, you'll go down to the planet to satisfy whatever is eating at you and hopefully you won't get yourself or anyone else killed in the process. And you know what you're going to have at the end of the day? Not a damn thing."_

 _"_ _I don't need a lecture, Bones." He looked away._

 _"_ _I'm not giving you one. I'm tired, Jim. I've been up to my armpits in corpses and working my ass off to keep you alive and now you want to go down to a planet so that you can, what? Have a perfect rescue record." He turned and picked up his medical case. "I want you to think about something, Jim. Think about what you're really after. Because it's not a rescue or retrieve mission, neither of which is even possible. You've made this personal. And the last time you did that, you ended up dead."_

McCoy peeled off his shirt and tossed it on the bed.

 _"_ _Welcome, Dr. McCoy," the ship's computer greeted. "You have a message waiting review."_

He stopped and frowned, twisting his head toward his desk where he saw that the message light on his terminal was blinking. What now? No emergency from the ship, or he would have been paged. This was an outside message.

"Play message."

 _"_ _Confirmed."_

A moment later Char's soft, feminine voice filled his cabin.

"Leonard. I'm sorry for the unexpected communication, but there's something I think you need to know, something I should have told you earlier, to be honest. I wasn't completely truthful with you about what I felt Captain Kirk was experiencing. I told you there were vivid images in his mind, and that it was most likely from a dream that was a result of the trauma he'd endured. But that isn't true. I've been sensing something very strong with the Captain. Something I've never felt before."

McCoy stood rigid, listening intensely as Char continued.

"Something is communicating with him, Leonard. I feel a strong presence from the planet. It's as if the Captain is somehow part of it, linked in some way." She took a breath. "Or at least that's how he interrupts it. I didn't want to say anything earlier because, with humans, it's not always clear. But it hasn't gone away. In fact, it's gotten stronger. This presence wants him to know. It chose him to—"

The message abruptly ended.

"Computer, continue message," McCoy ordered.

 _"_ _Transmission interrupted."_

He swore. "Place an urgent communication to the source and request live transmission."

 _"_ _Confirmed. Communication will take approximately eight point two hours to be reestablished."_

Fucking subspace transmissions. Pony Express was faster. He pushed a hand through his hair. What the hell was Char talking about? A presence? Was that why Jim was so obsessed with going down to the planet? What he meant by 'not leaving them'? Was it the scientists Jim had been talking about or something else? And did Jim even know the difference?

Had Jim's mental state been compromised?

He stood alone in his cabin, listening to the low hum of the engines. What in the hell was he supposed to do now?

Spock stood outside Kirk's quarters. He'd been standing in the corridor for more than four minutes, staring at the closed door in a very un-Vulcan-like manner. It was well into Beta shift and the corridors were unpopulated. His own cabin was only a few meters away and he'd left it to make the short trek to Kirk's cabin with every intention of requesting entrance. It wasn't the first time he'd made such a request. Kirk was partial to off shift visits. Spock knew Dr. McCoy made frequent visits to the Captain's quarters for what humans called 'a night cap'. With Kirk confined to quarters, Dr. McCoy's most recent visits were medical in nature. Spock had read the daily updates and knew that Kirk was recovering as expected. He hadn't wanted to approach Kirk during his convalescence, but he'd been alerted by the transporter team that Kirk had requested to transport down to the planet.

"Go talk to him," Uhura had said. "He needs your help."

It wasn't just the transporter request that alarmed Spock. He'd seen the imagines in Kirk's mind, the vivid recollection of being devoured by the planet, and he knew that something was wrong, that Kirk had developed a strong connection to the planet that seemed alien.

"Nightmares are normal for humans, Spock," McCoy had told him when Kirk had regained consciousness after entering the warp core. "They'll go away."

But this seemed more than a nightmare.

He took a step to the door and signaled for entrance. Even Vulcan hearing couldn't penetrate the sound-proof walls, so he had no warning before the door slid open to reveal a disheveled Kirk. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and shorts with his injured leg exposed and looked as if he'd just awoken.

"Mr. Spock," Kirk said surprised.

"I apologize for interrupting your convalescence, Captain."

A smile quickly appeared on Kirk's face. "No interruption, Spock. Come in."

Spock followed Kirk into the sitting area and noticed the room was warmer than usual. He stood silently as Kirk awkwardly lowered himself to the sofa, taking exaggerated care with his braced knee. Kirk looked pale and tired with a slight flush on his cheeks. His Vulcan hearing distinguished the slight wheeze in Kirk's breathing, a labored intake of air that was substantially less than he'd heard a few days earlier in Sickbay. There was also a noticeable increase in respirations and he knew that the small trek had tired Kirk. With a hand on his knee, Kirk stared up from his position and a frown appeared.

"Ship okay?"

"Yes, Captain."

Kirk continued to stare. He was having trouble breathing and trying to mask it. Leaning slightly back onto the cushions, Kirk's eyebrows rose with curiosity. "Do I have to guess?"

Spock pulled himself out of his observations and shifted his weight, uncertain how to begin.

"Sit, Spock."

It took him a moment to comply. He folded his long frame into the chair near the end of the sofa and rested his hands on his knees, looking at Kirk as if it were the captain who had summoned him.

"You're making me nervous," Kirk said. "The ship _is_ all right?"

"Yes, Captain. The ship's functions are normal."

A flash of alarm suddenly played across Kirk's face. "We're still orbiting the outpost?"

"Per your orders."

Kirk slowly nodded and seemed to relax. "Good."

Spock took advantage of the opening. "May I inquire as to why we are not returning to Starbase 11? They are expecting us."

"Our mission isn't complete." Kirk leaned back into the cushions and crossed an arm over his chest. He looked uncomfortable.

"Our mission was to rescue the scientists. We have succeeded in rescuing the remaining living scientists. There is nothing further for us to do."

"We haven't rescued them all."

Spock tilted his head. "The remaining scientists are deceased. A rescue mission by definition is the saving of life, or prevention of injury during an incident or dangerous situation. What you are referencing is a recovery mission."

"So, it's a recovery mission," Kirk said flatly.

"Recovery of the remaining scientists is impossible. The complex has completely sunken into the planet. Our scanners cannot penetrate the surface and to risk additional personnel to retrieve their remains would be irresponsible. And futile."

Kirk stared at a spot on the wall beyond Spock. "You want me to just leave them?"

"That is for Starfleet to decide. Our mission is complete."

Kirk shifted his gaze to Spock, who watched the emotions play across the pale features, everything from anger to anguish. Finally, Kirk looked away again. "I can't just leave them."

"You have few options."

Silence filled the small room. Kirk remained looking away and then finally spoke in a quiet tone. "Why did you come here, Spock? To tell me to give up? You don't know … what I know. You don't know what you're asking."

Spock took a moment before he spoke, uncertain of how much to reveal. "I am aware … you have had difficulties with the idea of leaving the outpost."

Kirk looked at him and frowned. "You've been talking to McCoy."

He heard the edge in Kirk's voice and recognized the stubbornness he'd seen all too often. "I have not spoken to anyone, Jim."

They stared at one another for a long moment.

"You know," Kirk said.

Spock shifted in his chair. He wasn't good at this. It wasn't like speaking to Nyota. Kirk was his commanding officer, unpredictable and emotional. But Kirk was also his friend, one who had risked life and career for him. "Only the images."

"Dreams," Kirk said softly.

"They are more than dreams."

A tongue passed between Kirk's dry lips and Spock knew that Kirk recognized the lie. "Can you always see?"

"No. Only when your emotions are strong." _Or your life is in danger._

After a bit, Kirk nodded and dropped his gaze again. "Then you know why I can't leave them. The planet will …. They'll be … devoured."

Spock's brows drew close. Language in the human world was not always precise, but he's learned to pay attention to the words humans chose. "Devoured?"

Kirk leaned forward, pushing a hand through his hair. "You don't understand."

"The natural decomposition of living organisms is universal. The –"

"It's not decomposition," Kirk said strongly. "It's hunger."

"That is what you have been made to believe."

Blue eyes focused on him, but Kirk remained silent.

"There is a connection between you and the planet," he explained. "I have sensed an intelligence communicating with you."

Kirk shook his head. "I wasn't sure. I kept seeing scenes. But it was more than just images."

"Yes. It was history."

Something lit up in Kirk's eyes, as if he finally understood. "Yes, it was history. But why tell it to me?"

"Perhaps the nature of your injury. The scientists assigned to the outpost seem to share your desire to remain."

Kirk sat quietly, staring at him. The muscle in his jaw jumped. "You think something wants us to stay?"

"Perhaps. Regardless, the planet has proven unstable and dangerous. Our responsibility now lies in preventing others from experiencing the same fate."

Slowly, Kirk nodded. "It needs us. It takes what it needs from the … dead. I remember fertilizing the fields when I was a kid. All that waste composted into a smelly fertilizer. Only this time it's the planet making compost."

"An unusual evolution."

Kirk nodded. "How many years of war devastated the planet, turning everything to waste?"

"It would not be the first planet to see its inhabitants annihilated by its inability to resolve conflict." Vulcan had come close to such a fate. It was only the discipline of Kohlinar that had saved them.

"The last man standing," Kirk whispered. His eyes unfocused. "The last two of their species."

Spock saw the image reflected in Kirk's mind, the battlefield and the last two warriors falling, each struck down from the other's hand. "And it is the planet that survived."

Kirk looked at him. "My grandfather used to tell me that nature always wins. You can only control it so much. Is it possible the planet evolved beyond its inhabitants?"

"Entirely possible. We have witnessed such transformation in other cultures."

"But not like this." Kirk pursed his lips and took a shallow breath. "We have to leave."

"Yes, Jim. We have to leave."

Kirk slowly nodded. "Okay."

Spock waited in silence with his friend, understanding how difficult it was for Kirk to agree. He could see it on the younger man's face, the conflict and anxiousness that resided beneath the pale skin. If he allowed himself, he could sense the emotions gripping Kirk – a tug-of-war between intellect and desire, fear and duty. He shielded his mind from the outpouring of emotions. Finally, he nodded to Kirk and stood.

In the corridor, he found Dr. McCoy waiting with an equally anxious expression.

"I didn't want to … you were busy," McCoy said reluctantly.

Spock didn't respond.

"Well, is everything all right?" McCoy asked.

"We are leaving orbit."

McCoy took a breath and let it out in shudders. "I guess that's good news."

Spock looked back at the closed door. "He may desire company."

McCoy narrowed his eyes, then he slowly nodded in understanding.

With a brief nod of farewell, Spock turned to walk down the corridor. He had a duty and the energy of shielding his mind from the emotions of his human friends was tiring. He wanted nothing more than to leave the outpost and to have the ship and her captain return to normalcy.

"Spock," McCoy called. "He is going to be all right?"

He stopped. During all the years of service the two men had shared, he had never recalled McCoy asking him that question. Even as Kirk had regained consciousness from his return of being dead, it was McCoy who had offered reassurance to Spock. This new question marked a change in their relationship. He would need to meditate on this. For now, he turned to the doctor. "Yes, Leonard. He will be fine."

Jim was alone. McCoy had finally left after indulging him in a nightcap. The ship had left orbit, but he still felt the pull deep in his gut, as if he were leaving part of himself behind.

This is obsession, he thought in the distant corners of his mind, as if recognizing his own destructive behavior, and then dismissing it. His thoughts turned to the planet consuming the remains, gaining its strength and life from the very inhabitants that had tried to destroy it. Somewhere deep in his DNA, passed on from Iowa farmers, a part of him cheered. Wasn't this the ultimate revenge? A planet learning to live at any cost? Where did that put man?

He limped to the bed, fighting off a wave of dizziness. Too much brandy. His head hurt. Falling onto the bed, he let the room spin around him.

I'm a ship's captain, he reminded himself. I was born in space. This is where I belong.

And yet he could too easily recall how his body had sunk into the burnt soil and he knew if he closed his eyes, he could smell the peaty odor of the fields and take himself back to that moment where he had become one with everything. IT had been a pleasure that filled every cell of his body, profoundly peaceful and fulfilling, for one who had been born in space.

So, he kept his eyes open and instead listened to the ship's engines hum and vibrate beneath him. He'd always found comfort there, in the safety and strength of the ship. Letting out a short breath, he tried to find pleasure in the rhythm of the ship. His ship, that he'd happily given his life to save. He'd never needed to try before. The pleasure had always been there, even in Iowa as he watched it being built in the open field. He'd stood, watching from a distance, drinking a beer and imagining how she felt as she soared through space.

His fingers tightened into the blanket beneath him. Don't close your eyes.

 _Think about the bridge. Think about the crew._

He imagined the stars brilliantly displayed on the main view screen. He could spend hours just watching them play across the screen. No violence. No blood. No decomposition. Just eternal stars and his ship moving through them. Moving away.

His head pounded. He shouldn't have had that brandy. He put a hand to his head, staring at the flat gray ceiling, when McCoy's words echoed in his mind.

 _"_ _I'm glad we're leaving," McCoy said, sipping his bourbon. "The further away we get, the better it will be. You need some distance. That's all."_

 _He nodded. He was feeling less of the pull. Maybe that was it. Maybe he just needed distance._

 _"_ _By the time we get to Starbase 11 you'll feel differently."_

 _The brandy was warming him, loosening his muscles._

 _"_ _All this will just be a faded memory."_

A faded memory, he thought anxiously.

He took a few even breaths and closed his eyes.

THE END

* * *

A/N - Thank you for waiting for this final chapter and for reading. Special thanks to my friend Janie for her brilliant edits and for guiding me through this story.


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